Fear of flying

A sea gull cries over me in the park as I exercise

My arms swinging old weights as the bird floats

Above me weightless

Its wings spread like mine

Only he rises’

And I sink

Somewhere an old song by The Supremes

Comes to mind,

About being set free,

And the bird floats

Into the gray fog

Vanishing at moments

But not its cries

The ground is still wet from the down pour

My shoes squeak as I moved through

A ritual I only half believe

The bird’s cries

sound like my cries

Only her cries are overjoyed

And mine

Over losing something

I never had

The wooden platform

Groans with each move I make

Splintered paradise sending showers

Of unwashed dust

Onto the surface of the water below

These set free, too

To drift to the unknown

The fear of being weighted down

The fear of drifting away

Both tugging on my aching biceps

As I lift my wings

And cry.

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Little me

I’m never prepared for you,

Even when I think I am,

Finding your building, but forgetting

Which button to push,

A novice at my age

Stiff as a soldier marching up your stairs

Melting in your arms,

As to let my fingers take me places

The rest of me needs to go,

I feel so clumsy, so blunt

That bull in a shop of china

Whose any wrong move might bring

The whole house down

I love your look,

Especially the mouth and eyes

Undisguised by makeup

As if you’ve already made love

Or want to,

As you press up against a defenseless me

A me that aches inside and out

Feeling you through thin fabric

My chest against your breasts,

My lips against your

Feeling softness beneath my fingers

I have not felt before,

Me, wanting to be inside of you

Whatever way I can.

But I am never prepared for you

Even when I think I am

Lost in some haze,

Brain freezing over small details,

such as my hand clasping your breast.

I am sixteen again

Copping my first feel

Only it’s your face I see

Even in memory from back then

And it’s your lips I kiss

The old Who song reverberated in me

“Can you see the real me? Can ya?”

I do not feel real, only you do to me.

I feel like I am sculpting you

With each touch,

Creating the breasts under my fingers,

Creating space between your legs

Your low voice moving my hand, my touch,

Directing me to those places

That bring you the most pleasure,

While between my legs,

I rise and fall like the tides

Leaving a residue of salt in the wake of lust

It is all too much to keep track of

To be certain as to what part of you does what

when I touch you,

aching to climb inside of you

when I can only keep my attention focused

on one thing at a time

fingers finding deeper hollows,

holy ground, sacred spaces

to press and encircle,

drawing moans I hope will turn to screams,

me, a terrorist waiting for that final explosion

that ultimate scream,

that burst of joy I can’t take responsibility for

but like a boasting kid brag about in my head

feeling proud about

even though your voice guided my hand

wherever it went

and the little me inside the big me

grateful for the help,

aching to please you, aching to make sure

this all can happen again.

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Inside and out

It always the mouth

that distracts me

From what goes on

in your mind,

Less hips than lips

that sails this ship

Over this sea of words

you weave

Puckered breath

painting portraits

Of what goes on inside

Each word so perfect

I ponder the prospect

Puckering up over them

To sip your words

Like wine

To make them mine

To reach that mind

Behind those lips,

Hips and eyes,

To know you

Inside and out.

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No sharp edges

There are no sharp edges

In this thing I feel

Just this blunt end of pain

I cannot cure for myself,

No shards of glass

The cuts of which

I can stitch up

To avoid the scars,

Just this dull ache

Ever erect, always poking

Me at times I least expect

Dragging me out

Of dreams of drowning

Shaking me out

Of my daytime haze

Expanding in my mind

Like an over inflated balloon

Waiting to pop,

With me, too much a coward

to do anything about it.

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The clock face of love

How many seconds pass between the clicks,

Between the sweeping arms and fading hills,

The worried looks that break the speed of sound

Between our eyes,

Again, the sweep begins,

Telling its concurrent lie, without change

With the slightest bend, out of place

A resonate nightmare

Bleeding our faces white.

We are helpless souls

Drifting sadly in the circles of a dream

Blinking on and off beneath

The flurried sparkle of a magic wand,

Blinking often,

More off than on.

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Rose bush

Today, you wear silence

An angry grown sewn with threads of frost

Inspired by the reverberant winter breath

Rushing through lifeless limbs,

Frost that seals you in a winter dress

Sleeves as clear as glass,

Aching for a single thought of spring

With me the sole subscriber to some future

Only hinted at in the mists,

Your buds still tight under the kiss of wind,

Waiting for the warmth of me

To inspire you to grow

To breath hard over you,

To bring back your painted glories,

To become a sweltering homage

Only high summer can bring

To let the my tongue play over you

My fingers run through your wilted leaves

To let me become your sunlight

To warm you, and melt your

Still frozen heart,

Me aching to touch

The pedals of your inner self

With the tip of my shivering tongue.

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Four Star Diner

I watch her long fingers

Grip the knife

And slowly spread butter

Across the surface of the bread,

The clatter of silverware,

The chatter of voices,

This cold Sunday in March,

Unheard except for hers,

Her hands so steady

While mind still shake,

Unnerved by her stare,

her meaning lost

in a fog like haze

sealing me into

this lonely harbor

from which I have

no will to sail,

too weak to resist her,

no matter where she

says I should go,

an Avalon and me King Arthur

with a self-inflicted wound,

bleeding into my eggs

as the knife moves

in and out,

leaving its guilty residue

showing in her eyes,

spreading over both of us

until too thin to scrape,

shredding me

layer by layer

with each cruel stroke.

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