Touch

Glass drips from the outside

As the ice melts within,

My hand inches from your hand

My mind already deep inside

The heat not from the sudden

Plunge into Indian-like summer

But from the churning

I can’t stop with burger and fries

Or any mortal food,

We live our lives on the edge of extinction,

Needing to feed a raging hunger

That makes us melt on the outside and in,

Fingers inches from contact we know

Will cause the start of a great cataclysm

Rivaling only the big bang that

Started it all,

We are universes on a collision course

We cannot avoid, with inches

On a table top or car door,

As vast as light years

And yet, closing fast,

The churning inside working towards

That moment when finally,

Breathlessly,

Unbearably quick and slow,

We make contact,

After which, the rest us utterly

Predictable,

After which, there is no turning back.

Burning palms

Thursday, May 21, 2015

My palms burn just from the thought of it

As if I have pressed both hands against a stove

Never learning from experience

About how hot things get when I press too hard

This growling volcano inside of me

Needing only an ounce of friction to explode

The rumbling of it rocking inside me

Waiting for the moment when I will erupt,

And then a never ending sequence of earthquakes

I am unable to control, nor want to,

Pressing my palms again and again

Against the scalding stove until I burn up

And still have not learned my lesson.

Pressed

Tuesday, May 19, 2015

I feel you through the thin veneer

The press of each curve

That fits against me

As we come together

For a moment, touching

And being touched

I feel you beyond the fabric

Beyond even the frail

Fabric of skin

That stands between us

As sheer as paper

But as firm as a wall

All the friction we can muster

May be unable to bring down

This need to get so close

That even skin doesn’t divide us,

This passion to feel every inch

Pierce through the pours

Until we drip into and out of each other,

I feel you underneath, and ache

To feel more

Pirate

Monday, May 18, 2015

Do they feel soft,

These quivering moist pink lips

That glisten in the dim light?

Are they as hot as they seem,

Flame-like, impatient,

But pressed tight like a treasure chest

I ache to open; but need no pirate’s map

To see what lies inside,

Just the courage to reach in and take it,

Hoping the theft will go undetected

Or better, accepted,

Making me sway as if still lost at sea

Unable to keep the tides from rising

And drowning me in their salty scent.

I drink nothing and still I feel drunk,

A staggering mass of unintended consequences

Rocking up and down and sideways

Until I cease to know which was is which

Or which way I intended to go in the first place,

Keeping sane only by wishing for

That which I can not have,

The imponderable mysteries of life:

Do they feel soft?

What if I touch them?

Will they even be enough?

Can I stop once I start?

How many times can I sink

Before I finally drown,

In this sea of potential bliss,

This potent mix,

This soft embrace?

Or have I already drowned

And do not know it?

Shawl

1

I sway like a sea sick sailor

Each time I come into this room,

Breathing too deeply the stale air

Of legality in which I have no faith

A lost soul a sea of opinions

I cannot share,

Staring at the walls and floor

Like a scolded school boy,

Waiting for the crack of ruler

Over the back of my hands

For what goes on in my head.

2

I see sparks fly

When ever she moves

Shoulders covered with a shawl

That adds mystery to

Who she is

And her shape,

Old Fashion tinged with tease

Making me shiver

Though it is not cold

This shape of propriety

Making me ache to

Crawl inside and bend my shape

Around her shape,

To make other kinds of sparks fly

3

She always makes me shiver,

And ache so deep it feels

Like an earth quake

She, decorated and polished,

Floats in and out of this place

As if floating on air

Her pursed lips needing a key

To open

With me hoping

Mine will do

Becoming one

Friday, May 15, 2015

I touch it with my hands

But feel it inside me

The old Beatles song

Ringing in my head,

“I am you, and you are me,

and we are all together,”

tied up in a know

neither of us wants

to escape from

each move drawing us closer

and more deeply bound,

a binding that breaks flesh

to get to the spirit

I cannot breathe

Or think

Only feel,

Each lingering finger

Finding space to fill

Like the tip of tongue

Easing in and out

Of the vacant space

Left by an extracted tooth,

Pressing deeper into its hold

To taste if not blood

Then something just as sweet,

Never satisfied

Always needing to go deeper

Binding tighter,

To touch more

Until we really do

Become one

A bite of the apple

Thursday, May 14, 2015

He waits for her to speak

Caring not so much for what is said,

Just as long as she says it,

Each new word from parted lips

A miracle of sound,

Resounding in his ears

As if this is the first time he could hear,

This how Adam must have felt

When Eve first spoke,

Aching for the moment when she

Might offer him the apple,

She unaware of the hiss of snake

He knows is his voice,

Her red lips pressed against

The cool red skin of the fruit

She must inevitable offer him,

The pop of its breaking flesh,

The drip of juice on her chin,

The look of blood lust in her eyes,

Her fingers still dripping

As she hands the bitten apple

For him to bite,

He drinking deeply the same sweet juice,

Tasting the sweetness of her lips,

Hearing her voice above the din

Of avenging angels and the deep bellow

Of an enraged god,

He hears only her voice

And tastes only her.