Crave

It's too much, yet not enough
to sate my burning
eye-lust for you.
~~~~~~
Above an ankle sock
a flash of pink,
curves of skin unpeeling
to calves and knee-pit g-spots,
the range of thighs and butt
like a bronze sea
undulating its
wavy candleflame-
flesh, firm but giving
in my grasp, releasing pearls with my tongue
until I capsize, no air
beneath you.
From toe to head I drown.

From head to toe I drown
beneath you,
until I capsize, no air
in my grasp. Releasing pearls with my tongue-
flesh, firm but giving
-wavy candleflame
undulating- it's
like a bronze sea;
the range of thighs and butt
to calves and knee-pit g-spots,
curves of skin unpeeling
a flash of pink
above an ankle sock.
~~~~~
Eye lust for you
to sate my burning.
It's too much, yet not enough.

Pause

It's easy to start with something substantive,
for it's you;
you place your head on my chest
where your tears are laid to rest;

you smell of work
and bus stops, the premature night
in your conditioned hair, crescent
of frustrated grief.

I wish I could fast it forward,
I wish I could pause it all,
(30, 40, 50, 60,
when is old? A death expected?)

- here in our private darkness,
practicing the at-once universal
and inalienable personal
truth of truths; a fist smacks down

so I hold your shaking close,
closer, closest I've ever held;
and for a while I feel the tears meld
the seconds into hours,

our beats unify and slow,
slower, slowest I've ever felt;
and for a while our latticed fingers melt
the hours into years;

this could be now,
this could be then,
this could be it.

I See The Dead

Watching old films,
I see the dead;
Kissing on the screen,
White lips, grey eyes,

Hair of ash
And worms and earth,
Their essence breathed
Into breezes that connect

With one another,
Generations chained
By celluloid, burned
To dead pixels

Painting a future
With a past,
A past with a future,
An endless reel.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I see the dead
Staring back at me,
There will be fire
In my pale blue eyes,

In my pale blue eyes
There will be no fire;
There will be a fire
Melting my pale blue eyes;

A fire, gas-blue,
Boxes of my image
And images of me
On paper, in light,

A digital fingerprint
Too, boxed, driven
Hard into memory
Like coffin nails -

Not too much heat, please,
And do not shake
Or drop me, I am
Susceptible to deletion.