Sometimes, I Love You With The Power Of A Thousand Running Greyhounds

Sometimes, I Love You With The Power Of A Thousand Running Greyhounds.


Sometimes, I Love You With The Power Of A Thousand Running Greyhounds

their muscled backs pulsing against the wind.
Sometimes, I love you quietly,
as in the million, contemplative heads in a field of wheat,
each softy, swaying stalk whispers
the closest sound we have to cloud. Sometimes,
I love you the color of cantaloupe, and passionate
as the perfumed juice that drips from mouth’s first bite.
At night, I love you cerulean and hot pink,
your skin a kind of dusk and my fingers busy painting.
In the morning, I love you resurrected and full of glee.
I am on my knees, bending. I tip the cup of my heart.
I make an offering. In the morning, my love for you is prayer.

A Mouth Full Of Sundays

I roll you in a mouth of Sundays.
Your skirt comes off in a mouth of Sundays.
Your hips are a mouth of Sundays.
Inside your body careen a mouth of Sundays.
I say in your ears a mouth of Sundays.
I’m giving your ass a mouth of Sundays.
Your nipples stand in my mouth of Sundays.
The light on your skin is a mirror held to a mouth of Sundays.
Nothing could break this dance, in the arced room, that is a mouth of Sundays.
Ecstatic laughing is shaped like a mouth of Sundays.
Soft.  Soft is my life, in your mouth of Sundays.

*refrain stolen from Mark Bibbins’ poem of the same name

Next Time…

I want it to melt in the hot pan of your mouth, to seep into the crease of your lips, and soften each rough patch you’ve carried thinking it was armor, and this was war. I’m looking for the kind that’s a cage opening, and a rabbit running from a hat, and the hand that holds the hat unfolding to reveal a lifetime of secrets inscribed in the language of skin. I’m talking about the ridge running through the center of each palm and my tongue slipping into the groove.  I’m saying let’s let loose a radical honesty, a vibrant policy of disruptive truth.  I’m turning to myself in the mirror, smeared toothpaste and all, saying: I’m taking a sledgehammer to my triple-locked basements. I’m walking into the dark well armed.  I see a fabulous kaleidoscope of broken, and I’m gonna make something breathtaking from these shards.

What If

What if we buried our heads in the hot and steamy folds of our lives?  The sweet smelling oven of forbidden something or other. What if we undressed our lives like a lover we met at the mall in a prim and proper woolen skirt, with pantyhose holding the wave her body longs to make, and her beige bra digging into the sandy shore of her back?  What if we dared to lay down with our lives and kiss its hair, and between its unkempt legs, and slap it a little just the way it likes?  What if life opened up for us after just the right amount of licking?  What if we turned to life like a stranger, placed a soft hand on its cheek, and told it it was loved?  What if life wanted to lay down in the subway car and bite us just a little bit?  What if we let it?  What if everyone watched?  What if strange life to turned to strange life and a whole subway car stood facing one another instead of away?  What if someone started humming, and the guy with the violin started playing along, and the opera singer kept time, and the piano tuner cried thinking of all the notes he had personally touched.  What if we realized each life was note that had to be held just so, or it wouldn’t sound?

If This Is An Emergency

You say you want a love that weathers; well I’m a damn storm-cover. I’m a ration of freakin’ spam. I’m a 10-year collection of flashlights; a survival kit for the cold nights when there ain’t nothin’ but the rain. In the morning, I’m a homemade shower, collected in a shovel, and rigged with twine. If this is an emergency, honey, my love is 911 and my kiss is on call 24/7. I’m gonna reach you through weeks of radio silence; a solitude deep as December snow. If this is the last waltz, we’re gonna Fred Astaire that shit. If this is hasta la vista, well baby, I’ve got your back.

The Philharmonic Plays In Central Park And So Do We

Nothing could be finer than these fireflies,

magical as when my sister spilled me from

our too-hot house in late July, and taught

me how to fill a candy jar with light.

We’ve forgotten blankets but no bother, she says,

let me be your lounge. I am ageless, playing games,

heaving laughter in that way, at this late stage,

I was sure my body had misplaced the knowledge for.

I want to bend onto these getting-older knees,

and press a pact between this ground and the rest of me –

to swear on slicked back hair, on the future in our kitchen

that we haven’t lived in yet, to never, ever, ever grow too old for this.