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Saturday, January 28, 2012


                Never mind. The self is the least of it. Let our scars fall in love. 
                                                ~Galway Kinnell


The kiss swims in
the water’s consuming flow--
with the tenacity of a liquid
emotional current—
waves of deep pinkish orange
luminescence wrap around
a woman’s torso like the
tentacles of an octopus’s charm.

Chaotic-- black ink clouds explode and
her lover vanishes amidst the coral,
escaping into liquid velvet charm.

The solitary storm darkens with an eerie
silence turning pain into a wild serpent;
the raw tale of the soul
flips and propels through
the watchful waters, searching for

the will of need. Tongues reach
for a thousand reasons,
bubbles of screaming questions
surface and the
heart of the creature finds
the reasons for demanding oxygen.

The undertow rolls and
curses in twisting whirlpools
of resolution and
is sucked into a green
undercurrent of truth.
Awareness swimming to the
questioning consistency of the shore.

Rising from the dark depth 
of the primordial ocean,
a burning sunrise glows naked,
a single soul stands beside a barren
pagoda, with fresh toes digging into the
desert’s warmth, whispering
what has happened to my love?

Sunday, January 22, 2012


Words are a way that mark us even though the writing is invisible,
yet those words define us as if they were tattooed on our bodies,
and those words create the history of a relationship. It implies creation, evolution and destruction--the circle of life, the span of life, the span of a relationship...
imagine the words written on our soul from everyone who has touched our lives.

                       Ink smears, as thoughts sometimes do. ~Terri Guillemets

The Memory of the Written Word

With the blackest of ink,
I create my art on your flesh…
words inflamed by my fingertips,
sounds slipping from your soul,
written by my hand
on the ribs of your will,
all sealed inside your body
with thick of
sealing wax, pressed
by the signet of my heart.
Day into night, hours pass as if
only moments, and
I am a slave to the letters
written upon your skin.

Your written words
now driven onto my skin,
slowly seeping into my flesh,
into my muscle,
into my fierce blood,
circulating endlessly
as air fills my lungs, and
turns my will to a
fluid, lovely sylph.

I find inner strength and peace;
I feel weakness without you as
your portrait lay under my need.
Truth precedes not
the rarest moment, but
the elemental memory
of my earliest universe--
your solitary nest hidden
inside a quixotic liaison.
I gaze at the starry nostalgia
of the slight of your neck, and
I know the inner history
of each of your treasures as I
sit and pine at the omniscience
of your being, languid in your
beautiful byzantine bedroom,
I dream of the ethereal form of you.

Wednesday, January 18, 2012


“I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear”
-Martin Luther King, Jr.

                                                                                                        photo by- T.Kraft
Life, it is said, is like a chess game.

It is said…
she talks like she has
a martini in one hand
and a cigarette in the other;
she lives and moves in
her ambivalent house; she is
the calculated queen without weakness,
rendered slightly insignificant, a
static image dancing around the
checkered board, a shuffled
unbalanced triangular waltz
is what she presents with the
wisp of a dull ache
in her stomach.
She conceals the truth
for the reign of her pawn’s pledge.

It is said… with
the slight correction of
the fine line of a rifle, precisely
crossing into the right sight;
it is the king’s face-off.
It is the combination of energy,
the scratch of time across his face,
the combining of life’s castles
forced into one completed step,
the cross-hairs of configurations
that are hidden in the missing move.
He is pinning another, conforming
to the rules of the game, and still
unable to check mate in
a stale mate that nobody will win.

Saturday, January 14, 2012


I often think that a slightly exposed shoulder emerging from a long satin nightgown packs more sex than two naked bodies in bed. Bette Davis

I Danced with Abandon

I was a man back then,
someplace lost in the
past centuries of time,
when making love was honest
and felt and filled with the
faces of lovers’ dreams.
And a woman pined for it,
and a man delivered it, sincerely.
Something like
the tango, a slow stepped
lovemaking dance, hips that
connected with
a knowingness of you.

Wednesday, January 11, 2012


A hunter of shadows, himself a shade. ~Homer

The Nobility of the Night Drive

And there you stand like
a red stop sign
on some deserted road--
a nameless road,
a winding and twisting script,
a finger gliding across a map,
white lines dividing brain matter.
You are dwindling behind me like
an 8 track without lyrics.
You continue to stand still
disappearing into a certain shadow, into a
broken rhythm where reality stops moving.

Driving forward, wild hair finding wind,
you are a little secret locked in my mind,
you hold otherworldly symmetry,
reservoirs of memory, topography
fading into the past black roads,
an arrested fluid mirage.
My memory is becoming elastic, a
bending liquid story living in the
recess of my yellow cautioned bridge.

Life is soaring around me like
a solitary bird of prey
kiting the domain of her sky; behind me,
the rearview reflection remains silent.
My white leather passenger seat
is empty—black cracks in the creases--
left behind from another lifetime.
My fingers wrapped
around the sturdy steering wheel driving
a circular perception, my translatable
top down, my speeding tires
making contact with the present ground,
ether of your vanishing memory.

Friday, January 6, 2012


“True strength lies in submission which permits one to dedicate his life, through devotion, to something beyond himself.” Henry Miller

The Constellation of Your Body

The incense of wet wood velvets
the pleading of my lips as your purity
is an anointment to my flesh.
I am undone by the thoughts
of the constellation of your body,
your cleanliness surrenders
me to my prophet's devotion,
(a white-winged victory balanced
over the benediction
of my heart.)
Your skin, the color of creamed milk, brings
trembling strength from a place unknown;
you are the birth of a vision of hope.
My prayers are sanctioned as
words escape through the
the scent of your breath, and
when you breathe out your swollen
lips turn from white to burgundy,
and the certainty of your life ignites
the smoldering embers of my
inner secrets.
The taste of your words bestows me
to the core of your existence as
the presence of you
standing right next to me
humbles my testament for truth.