No sharp edges (2012-13)

 

There are no sharp edges here

Only the soft moist pillows

That take me in

And swallow me whole,

Warmth against my heat,

Receiving me,

And this one hard edge I bring,

Soft rubbing hard,

The determined drip of time

Wearing away my stiff touch

And my desperate need,

A heated exchange,

A snake oil cure

For the ache I feel,

Rubbing me until

I feel no more pain.

There are no soft edges here,

Yet in her soft embrace

She wears me down,

One slow stroke

After another,

Growing more rapid

More intense,

Her silky interior

Yielding to my stiff kiss

Until she wins,

Her supple touch

Defeating me completely.

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Singing her siren’s song may 2012

 I never really fell

for the Cub thing

though I really, really wanted to,

 not the way he did,

 taking her under his wing

like a dusty old dog lapping up fresh water.

I ache to be him,

 to forget what I suspect,

to take advantage of her in every way,

when I know or think I know

 she's really taking me.

I see the savvy look

behind her eyes

and hear the tone of experience

 in her voice,

 even when she sings and I'm conflicted,

 needing to surrender to her siren's song,

desperate to pretend I'm the one

taking her for the ride,

 when all I ache for is

for her to ride me,

 like she does him,

she, the innocent novice

he gets to teach about life

 and maybe more.

 

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Her silence? aug 27, 2024

  

why is she so silent

 a houseplant stirring

 rattles more than her bones do

weak fiber, I think not

 her absence withers men’s souls

as we hang on Vines

she in her middle age

 having no need to revive them

their juice that once tasted so sweet

 has just a touch of bitterness

as she replants her roots

and hopes to grow without them

all her debts of the past

paid in full

and if she chooses to pick fruit

that tangles before her

she can pick and choose

no longer coming to this

out of need or as a cure

for lonesome blues

she has herself to keep company with

and that is more than enough

her silence is not smug nor arrogant

 just satisfied

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Puppet June 3, 2015

 

I know I don’t feel the same way she does, more remote then hers, as if when it happened it happens to someone other than me,  while the whole time I want it to feel close up, where I have no control over the outcome, her fingers inside me, making me to things as if I am a puppet, unimagined things I know she knows how to do when I only dream them. I want her to make me feel it the way I know she always feels it, every time, as if she’s practiced it for so long she has no other way to feel it except for the way she does. I know she knows how to make me feel like that, and all I have to do i let her take over, put her fingers up inside me, move me around until it all comes out.

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Surrender or not? Sept 9, 2024

  

has she surrendered it

 giving in

thrown in the towel

 thinking it has gone on without her

 and so closed off her heart

 or is this merely a temporary reprieve

to breathe to regroup again

for yet another leap into those arms

I wonder into whose bed

or has she fled that

to which in the past

 brought her and others Joy

 has she give up the ghost

thinking to obtain it

 too much effort for

too little reward she gets back in return

does she hide in the shadows now

 to keep it from finding her

 rooting her out

 gripping her heart again

 and again reminding her of

 how much pain it brings

 along with joy

 has she given up on it

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Star struck June 27, 2024

 

 

She has become

The Madonna,

I once thought

She was,

A new image

Posed for public

Consumption,

A darker yet

Still angelic look

That strikes me

The way images of her

Did in the past,

Straighter hair

Framing her face,

The intensity of her

Dark eyes,

Waking the urges

The way her gaze

Always did, her mouth,

Always an invitation

For a kiss,

Not quite smiling,

Yet not at all sad,

Her face the face

That set so many

Ships to sail,

More mature,

Yet not old,

If anything

More resolved

Perhaps even

Filled with a sense of peace,

This face the face

I come back to again

And again, if only

In dreams,

Still as potent as

When we were still

Both younger,

When we were both

Still naïve,

An image that leaps

Out at me the minute

I see it,

Almost a stranger,

Certainly different,

Even though it is

The same face,

And I still stare,

Star struck.

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Cherry Blossoms Aug. 31, 2014

  

I recall the pictures of cherry blossoms (or were they apple blossoms, I’m never sure) she took during her trip to Newark, back when she still believed she could make her way in the world with her camera, pink everywhere, and I was in awe, her world laid out before me like an open oyster, making me ache for a taste, and now, this side of summer, we wait for the trees to change, leaves bleeding and falling, autumn coming yet not quite yes, as if we wait for the end of the world, tempting fate, and ache for an embrace, we can’t hasten, or invite, scared to death of the consequence, the harsh reality of our last fateful attempt. What do we do when none of the dreams of cherry blossoms come real, and we live to watch the leaves change, summer into fall, fall into winter, and then the cherry blossoms again, as I cling to old photos, imagining her with her camera, snapping pictures of a dream that won’t ever come true.

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