#23
Sweet mouthed Adonis,
take me to Cairo.
Serve my heart on a platter,
set ablaze by the top of your head.
My Sweet, Your Majesty
***
Your skin pale and warm
- cream pinned down.
Light from every dream
pouring out, out of pores.
I can’t hold on, as if it’s
too bright.
***
You, little prince.
Hair in copper and gold.
Only brave only pure
noble Greek hero.
Bowing for all the applause.
Rosebud lips parted – upward.
***
Suns in each cheek,
flowering roses, fawning dancers.
Music, touch, stance,
- Immaculate.
And even when you bend,
you take a golden shit.
The Lot
All my friends are on my porch.
The summer light is almost gone.
To our right are rows
and rows of houses.
Ahead of us are rows
and rows of houses.
To our left, an empty lot.
It is a vast lot. All dust and
brambles. A little further left
are rows and rows of houses.
But this lot.
It gives the impression of living
on seaside property, of living
on a ranch.
They’ll build a dormitory there soon,
and all the great wonder
and awesomeness
of existence will once again be
clouded by straightening hair and
swagger perfume and
diet pills and discarded condoms and
various powdered cheeses.
But tonight. The air is warm.
The breeze pushes my hair.
The old Italian strolls silent down the sidewalk.
And in the middle of that lot,
standing, I can see all those things
the country boys sing about.
I can see all them stars tonight.
Relations
I place this gift, at the base
of your lovely lotus lipstick,
hoping you’ll smile just once more.
To see those blackened lips
move skyward.
Oh ecstasy ecstasy!
But only in relating dreams,
relating stories in dreams
do you come back to punish
me for childish bed-wetting.
Something simplified from
real-world wrongs.
That was what I thought.
But in the bathroom I see
faces mixing in the water.
You’ve resurfaced. Regrown
in my cheekbones, the finer tuning
of a mother’s grin.
