I want you to feel

the burn of me

even after

your scars I leave

are no longer visible.

Vacillate, tropical nube de Lluvia,

cooled,

condensed beyond capacity,

avoided not

overwhelming warm front.


Rained NaCl with H2O.

Blue crystals are born in the mist
from warm intermittent gusts
of dampness from pouting caves

Hills fall three times as quickly
as they rise

Caressing deciboas slither
through cotton fields and denim deserts

pausing to tantalizingly squeeze

the hind's rear limbs
with just enough pressure
to escalate the pulse rate
and trigger a jolt

Burning baobab blaze ascends
to the heaving hills, descends
to cratered ponds filled with heptane isomers

Tribal drums pound a narcotic rhythm
to April's goddess

Urgent anxiety for the moored
sacrifice abandoned

while the sanguinous lion whetted
his voracious appetite and perused
each leaf and frond
on his growling ramble to the shrine

Sangría,

este día,

tu poción poderosa me encanta,

con mi razón confundida juega,

me da un flor de esperanza,

y mi cisterna de soledad llena.

Tu juicio tomar,

tu fruta comer,

es a mi invitar

tu ruta aprender.

Mi alma leal no tiene miedo

de tus manos, de ojos fervientes;

me promete el profundo cielo

de nuestros cuerpos celestes.

Me voy contigo, mi amante, hoy,

con alegre y entusiada corazón;

propias promesas extasiadas te doy,

te doy con apasionada devoción.


¡Sangría!

Take my hand.

Let me lure you down

the path of sin

where you have been--

and

--try to avoid thinking,

pondering, wishing, yearning for dusk

to throw stone

colored shadows

over your

footprints, your

tire tracks, your

headlights.

Come to me here

in my cave forbidden

full of wonder hidden

beneath thick, lush

vines that have not been parted

since God knows when.

Taste the sweet water

from the sacred fount that flows within.

Feel the walls smooth as silk

under the fingertips.

Breathe the perfume

of strawberry blossoms,

of the red-pink fruit flesh,

ripe to touch

to taste

to savor.

Take your time.

Relish the virtuous fruits

of temptation

for I may never

offer them again.

Tempting strawberry

ripens at room temperature;

her luscious fragrance

evokes wetness.

Craving fingers

pull back velvet leaves

to wrap lips around

vibrant, pink-red fruit-flesh.

Engorged naga

glides slowly but eagerly

over tiny seed bumps.

Ivory wedges

savor the initial resistance,

relish her juices

as her flesh pushes open

then closes around them.

Desire consumes

the entire sweet berry,

all the way up to the velvet.

Taste my fruits,

_______ripe, fresh, sweet

Drink my juice,

________on your knees

Kiss my thighs,

________a thousand times

Fill my bowl,

_______fill my soul

My fondue is all lit up.
Why couldn't you be here to share?
I dip my finger for a small sup.
Mmmm, I suck, leave it there.
Sticky, sweet on my lips.
Berries or bananas, what's my choice?
Going for the fruit, swaying hips,
long wood pokes, berry juice!
I'll come again for the long yellow,
but now the berries call my name.
Too bad you missed this, silly fellow.
Maybe next time you can light my flame.

My passion for you lies dormant
in a glowing ember.

When I am alone,
Thoughts of you ignite a slow burn
in my core.

Downward it spreads
to flaming petals moistened
with flowing nectar made warm
by the intensity of the slow burn.

Legs too weak to stand,
too restless to be still.

Upward it spreads,
A slow, hypnotic dizziness
from the sudden rush
leaves me stoned.

Ishtar's potent narcotics
saturate
and drown my reason.

Everything becomes electric
underneath stroking,
fluttering fingers.

Only one thought,
One focus...

Stoke the slow burn.

Here I go again... thinking about
something I shouldn't, playing with matches
when the lights are not even out.

Even if I did need the light,
I have no need of matches
when there are two flashlights

in the second drawer from the top;
I still don't need matches
(extra batteries in case the others flop).

Where did I put the box,
the red white, and blue box of matches?
Rummage in the basket where I drop

things I don't really need,
like a box of matches,
things I don't always know why I keep.

But I like them,
even silly matches.
Hey, I think I see them.

Yes, my fingers recognize
the cardboard of the box of matches.
Interesting, it's smaller in size

than I remembered, but maybe not.
Maybe my idea of matches
grew in my mind as I thought

of striking a match,
though I have no need of a match,
a match, the match, the lovely match.

Top and bottom smooth to touch.
That brings back memories of matches.
Bumpy sides, mmmm, rough.

My fingers are getting quite a thrill
stroking the box-- I want a match.
One finger pushes, open... the smell!

The smell of fiery temptation
to light a single match.
One little match isn't damnation.

Close the box and push through
the drawer full of matches.
In the other end I view

not just the long, yellow shafts, ridged,
sultry wooden matches,
the round, red heads, potential flame hid.

Not going to touch it... quietly gaze
upon the powerful match heads
waiting to be struck, to ignite, to blaze.

Sighing, longing to pick one up.
One of the sweet, sturdy matches,
Comparing. One of them is different from

the rest. That is the one I will hold
above all the other matches.
They can stay in the box, in the cold.

This match is my match for now,
but it won't take long for the match
to burn bright. Then the flame will go out.

I do not light but tease, strokes long,
up and down the sides, the head, the match,
twirling in my fingers, wondering if I'm wrong

to light the match if I don't need
to. If only I did not want to light the match,
the match, this hot little match that's got me--

Reason not to strike:
That is a wasted match.
But there are plenty more inside.

Reasons to strike, more than "not," but few:
The smell, the red and yellow flame of the match.
The heat. And I have nothing to lose...

...except the match.

For your kiss, my secrets I tell,
My body respondes to your sinful spell.
Part my lips with your gentle swell,
I become your wicked Jezebel.

Splintered shards, my inhibitions fall,
Your determined hands break down each wall,
Purposeful deconstruction, intent to enthrall.
You want it all, please take it all.

Too long since you last plunged my well,
Haunted by memories of my smell.
With or without me, which is hell?
But for this moment, your soul you sell.

Every day you hoped I would call.
I call, but you cruelly tease and stall.
At first I stand, but then I crawl,
Weakened by our temptuous brawl.

We both have fears, those we quell,
And relent to the lusts that compel,
Captured, entangled in each others' spell
For this moment--

my lover has refined tastes
no cheap tequila for him
more sweet liquor
to pass my lips
warm my hips
open to your dips
my thighs, my mouth
turned upside down
drunken, wetten, arms surround
surround you and me and us
i have to know you better first
through my mind is the lust
and it does not trust
the mind trusts none
not even one
but to know the soul
of the other to toll
is a must

love-starved, not sex-starved,
but i will give you what you asked for
a hot, wet, submissive alpha wolf
biting your shoulder right at the muscle
where the deltoid meets the collarbone
and then lick your bone, hard as oak
and bending to meet my whims demanding
an ounce of pleasure for each minute spent
searching for my freedom's jailer,
an ounce for each minute drowning
in the trappings of trust,
in the snares of lust.
i will give you what you begged for
a teacher, a guide, a goddess
to show you how,
to be your master,
to make you crawl at my feet
and cling to my waist.
you have enough stamina;
i can bring you to four,
but can you spend more?
i will give you what i want
because i want to,
not because someone told me
that i want to,
not because you look like a present
wrapped in shiny paper with a giant bow
pleading me to open you.
i want you.
i will have you on our terms.
not theirs.
come
see me like a man on a mission.
show me your game face,
the face of a conqueror,
or at least a soldier unafraid of the fight.
do not come to me like a scared boy -
i want, i need a man
to bring out the woman in me.

You say it's not about 'that,'
but it seems 'that' is all you can think about;
I'm the one who makes you think about 'that.'

'that,' like anything else all the time,
(except for blogging)
is boring.

talk to me about people like
the man in the park,
about why he could not find within himself
what I found in me.
that is why he is still out there, you know.
i wonder if he is okay,
but i am not talking to him anymore.
he put his hand on my neck,
and i did not want to break his
uninsured ribs that were wide open
and his pale throat that i did
think twice about driving the outer
edge of my hand into like i did the
pine blocks.
i walked away instead.
wish he would not have done that.

i want to understand Einstein's theory
of relativity.
my mind is bending, pulling...
toward the light...

or is the light bending...

show me how to make a balloon animal.
better yet, teach me how to make
a tequila sunrise,
and then show me how to make that balloon dog, lol!
i might not remember how to make it, but i will remember laughing like hell with you.

when you hold me, there is nothing better,
but life is more than being held.
life is living.

Sky prematures to midnight tinged charcoal,
Leaves continue to burn green.
Fear and promise overlook the lush valley,
The steep slope only a misstep away.
Hands, hearts grip tightly to faith,
Minds analyze, reassure delicate souls
that grow stronger each answer,
each listen,
each know,
each understand.
Comfort erases doubts,
emboldens yearnings,
strengthens resolves.
Unstable balance of love broken,
love decades sustained,
love slipping, missing, returning, revealing.
Love raining down
liquid ardor
over
arduous humid exchanges of tongues, lips, skins,
Condensing on lenses,
Soaking cotton,
Dampening...
Love captured in stolen moments,
Preserved in guarded chambers,
Ours lives and breathes,
has a life of its own,
binds us,
brings us together
quenching, healing,
as rain to the forest.

A Reminder for North

Washing dishes
Cooking (occasionally)
Bending over to herd
the dust bunnies
into the dust pan
Black leather chaps

Giddy up!

_______i am as sand. You think
______i'm in yo ur hand but as you
______stroll ba refoot where ocean meets
________land...


___Glimmering,

______shimmering

_________facets_________________tips

_____________________and

_______waving

____arms and torsos

_________writhing hips

______________Hypnotizing

__________Mesmerizing

Swaying____Rising

__before__your

_______eyes

_____and you

____Realize--




A downward gaze

in your unfastened haze...

you are flaccid

remiss

a jellyfish.


Unintentional man-

-umission...__Sand

_________________f
________________l
_______________o
______________w
_____________e
_____________d

______________p
_______________o
_______________u
________________r
_________________e
__________________d

_____________r__i___v
____________________e
_____________________r
_____________________e

_____________________d

_____________________.

Your lower lip quivered--

--slightly.

Ocean's distant cousins

make tide pools

for an instant.

You blink them

compliant.

Master of sand?

Oh, no...

When I want to,

I Go.

Montana knew Delaware and Spain,

but not Oregon and Florida.

Florida knew Kansas who knew Delaware

but not Oregon, Montana, or Spain.

Wales knew Austria and Delaware,

mistook Florida for Mississippi.

Argentina had met Taiwan but forgot

until 6 months later.

Ukraine knew Florida, heard of Montana,

and wanted to meet Georgia.

Georgia knew Hawaii but thought Idaho

was Minnesota and made friends with NY,

pissed off Indiana, tried to fuck Louisiana,

and made out with Kentucky.

Spain seduced Mexico and played Canada,

who had been sleeping with Wisconsin since

they were so close.

Stuck in the middle, Norway tried to recover

a fumble from Samoa but ended up running over

Puerto Rico.

Then they all began running into each other trying to

save their mASSachusEttS.

Familiar fruit to be shared,
You and I are members;
Miles apart and years,
each remembers
wearing white, cherry covers
of sweet lovers,
peeling
outer layers revealing.
Knife enters
unhindered.
Nectar drips
upon covetous lips.
Enraptured tongue
drinks, tastes until unfeeling,
satisfyingly numb.
I want us to be there
spooning, side by side,
warm in the cold air,
delectable kisses, no need to hide.

Do I uncover, bare my soul
before the world?
Or keep myself for him
before whose words
I genuflect in grateful submission...
Mouth open for communion,
head poised to go down,
I await transmission
of his divine sacrament.
I long to drink his wine,
feel the rush of his liquor
coursing down my throat,
through my limbs.
Stigmata.
Your spirit flows,
marks me as your own.