ticks i can't get rid of

And can I tell you even
though you already know (because I papered you in those three
words and forgot to tape the bottom).
When my nose takes a sip of you
opening wide, weeding out viscous
gossamer angel theory,
only letting pass ruby red scheming thought bubbles
exiting by way of the municipal great divide,
my thumb meets my pointer and says hello.

Excuse me did I say that, did I let it find it‘s way out of me?
Some fans are catching a glimpse of our code,
perhaps the code I concocted without your knowledge.
I signed it in what came out of me.
My words, of course.

Anne muther fucking Sexton

Knee Song

Being kissed on the back
of the knee is a moth
at the windowscreen and
yes my darling a dot
on the fathometer is
tinkerbelle with her cough
and twice I will give up my
honor and stars will stick
like tacks in the night
yes oh yes yes yes two
little snails at the back
of the knee building bon-
fires something like eye-
lashes something two zippos
striking yes yes yes small
and me maker.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

The Balance Wheel

Where I waved at the sky
And waited your love through a February sleep,
I saw birds swinging in, watched them multiply
Into a tree, weaving on a branch, cradling a keep
In the arms of April sprung from the south to occupy
This slow lap of land, like cogs of some balance wheel.
I saw them build the air, with that motion birds feel.

Where I wave at the sky
And understand love, knowing our August heat,
I see birds pulling past the dim frosted thigh
Of Autumn, unlatched from the nest, and wing-beat
For the south, making their high dots across the sky,
Like beauty spots marking a still perfect cheek.
I see them bend the air, slipping away, for what birds seek.

---------------------------------------------------------------

The Black Art

A woman who writes feels too much,

those trances and portents!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.

A man who writes knows too much,
such spells and fetiches!
As if erections and congresses and products
weren't enough; as if machines and galleons
and wars were never enough.
With used furniture he makes a tree.
A writer is essentially a crook.
Dear love, you are that man.

Never loving ourselves,
hating even our shoes and our hats,
we love each other, precious, precious.
Our hands are light blue and gentle.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
But when we marry,
the children leave in disgust.
There is too much food and no one left over
to eat up all the weird abundance.

the turning point

it's the point at which this winding
river run has become blindingly straight
as in a deer's eye, daring the pregnant gun barrel
pushing through the screeching iron baby-bullet.

as in a hunter's resignation,
an ill-fated resolution to pull from within
knowing the nature of
nature's bloodbath.
when camo is cutlery
already ineffectual air sliced by modular liquid hell
if you are spotted and prickly backed
or smooth for water
or hooved for run
or clawed for climb, and feathered for flight
or to soar.
to the equation occasion, add insult to injury

let's make it dark
on a scale of water and totem marks
i can make a plea for sport
just to be fair, but this isn't your game
or is it, black rattler in the holy thicket
for almost black is rich blue which is
to say murky thick crimson
and the interval between the clicks
and the
time
before
the wound.

my girl

My girl is a hard plastic
ice cube tray
Tinted window on a microwave
Bubbling over with fat, boiled rubber
mess
Hollow, emaciated
runway crawling and slithering
Stroking stick straight glue hair
died black
curled purple tips
My girl is
Rude
They just wanna fuck her
She just wants to be
Fucked

My girl is foreign;
Fine tuned machine
Hot tan skin, baking in the sun and lush brown eyes.
Big black moles
Touching him
under the table,
touching me on the floor.
Winking, slits for eyes, yellow tinted tits
My girl is militant, collar straight starched polished blank mindless:
Militant.

My girl is soft, and squishy. Blob. Boring, blah, devoid, gorgeous, gone. Fat and white muffin top with highlights! Blindingly transparent legs, back, chest. Reminiscent of…
My girl is not memorable, she amounts to nothing.

My girl is boi.
Gender? Curious. Questioning. Pin me down black bone hand tattooed
On my arm.
She is top: dom
Male AND female
Ze
Ass grabbing, shrieking, spitting, smoking, pierced piece of shit.

My girl is a trophy.
Back straight!
Chest out!
Bright eyes.
Glistening jagged fingernails.
Picture of beauty, reflecting bloody nostrils, white
smudged powder.
Hard, firm, ass.
Muscles, toned syringe pushing fingertips.
Luxurious full hair….
on a mannequin in 5 colors and styles…
Doesn’t she know that moderation is key?
They ask me?

I’ll let her down easy. It’s sad really, she has no idea what’s to come.
Piss ass drunk, stoned, and malnourished and rolling.
Clawing and fighting,
Naked in the cage.
Can somebody control this bitch?
Shrill screech is a plea.
Don’t worry, I say, she’s with me.

this is how i see you

this is how I see you.
leg to hip, tongue to lips
woven in a perfect coil

this is how I see you.
spark in air to ignite
smoke rising in tiny ringlets
making dusk blue-black
smoldering words, white hot and wonderful

this is how I see you.
sometimes see through you
tough, too rough and you make me change
triggered by doubt that
crept by, kept by
seemingly unimaginable movement

this is how I see you.
a ship
christened, coated in a sheath of gold gleaming sheen
wind at the bow
black water breaking at the base
swirling song and unsafe

some fun

love
my
sex.

bone and back bent
blasted
beyond breaking point
and dance that dance

open your eyes

like you open your mouth

like you open your legs
beautiful girl

i look down at your veins
i look down on fat worms on wet cement
i giggle gasp

tie your hair back in a ragged knot
to look older

when you get thirsty
pour the drink
when you get warm
open the window

do anything
but don’t talk to me
baby, it’s love

Ode to DK

DK. A teacher? A lover?
must one be K. Aaron Smith to touch her?
the sky above her, is it a brighter blue?
the carpet beneath her tiny feet a deeper brown
her presence creates a creamier hue.

our words are our food
the lecture hall our shelter
the steps i take to my seat, oh the movement of her hands, what a treat!
notes aside, pencil aside, powerpoint aside
i am the microphone
cold, black, tiny in her hand
i wait on the table, lifeless until DK picks me up
puts her plan into action
all of a sudden, i feel the electricity pulsing through my once lifeless chord

my destination is clear and inevitable
as she places me in her nonexistent cleave
i wonder, is there any place sweeter than this?
i look down at the sparse bosom of the one i am drawn to
i am like a moth lost in a flame
except i am a microphone, lost in the creamy Asian colored flesh of DK
i am no longer the microphone

everything about her causes my tongue to tie
my skin is hot, my face flushed
when she flashes some thigh
i notice her, i see her
she is kneading the air
she is pointing her laser pointer
she is articulating the phonemes of my wildest dreams!

if she only knew, only understood how happy she could be if she let me take her back to wessex
does she see the danelaw in my eyes?

i cannot help but wonder
as she speak of language, comitatus
and plunder
did she mean what she whispered to me during office hours
late that night?
her voice was faint
but i will never forget

se lufode

one day you'll understand

silly putty hands waiting at the baggage claim
for the unopened sugary cake cocoon
revealing to you inner eyelids
maybe other parts too

inaccessible, tell me again
how daring
when crowded waist deep
in failed attempts
in exceptional deluded prowess
if then this
well, you have succeeded

but if not
then what?

smile

smile stealing
word junkie
slow climb in this world war
in the remembrance of me
so you’re skittish and wet
and all the while
wild for it.

i can’t travail this distance
between your hip bones
by sweet subservience alone
or by intimation
of the peak of your arched brow
and the crest of your bent knee
or even the softness of your inner thigh
on my cheek.

let’s rewrite petty history
or the a historical symbiosis between you
and any other.
for the matter at hand
is where mine rests
when you smile.

not yet

not yet

day after day of amusing dismissal and diligent awareness
are a constant reminder of a potential invocation
of my muse.
or an untouchable face
on some days I can grip with both hands.
the remaining stored scents sit on my brain’s bone branch
heavy like iron, pungent like a fermenting memory.

which seems best?

every touch is a torturous tingle, a skin quake
every aftershock reverberates
through blood rivers, lip mountains, marshes of flesh.
a flood will recede
only after it has left its mark
on the trees.

forget forged investigations, framed in right and wrong
mother culture’s velvety cloak covers the thorny thickets
of what you really want.
traverse what matters
pseudo explorer.
for you are no traveler.

not to me.
not yet.

like brand new

this dependency on reciprocity
surely divides re-creation into two worlds
sheltered by the counterculture
both seemingly lovely and mouth-watering
obviously unoriginal

give me an enclosed, untouched dome
only echoes of the brick snatch
unlikely consequences of the beautiful butterfly
a distant recollection triggering meaning
fortunate for us three