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Tuesday, October 27, 2015


sin wave

Let me tell you what I know;
since that day, my heart beats
in syncopation with yours.
Any distance between us
is distance that muffles my heart;
our sin sealing my bond to you.
My mistake - thinking this trembling
a synonym of lust.
A curious cyanide process*,
extracting faithfulness from cynicism.
Perhaps it was an ill-timed synapse
throwing me from my center,
throwing me in synchronicity to your orbit,
burning as I spin
like the suns in Constellation Centaurus.
Perhaps it is my soul beating inside,
in sympathy to my heart,
that has built a synagogue of yearning -
of yearning for your exposed soul.


*cyanide process = a metallurgical technique for extracting gold from low-grade ore.

Saturday, February 16, 2013

My Momma Didn't Raise Me Right But

My momma didn’t raise me right,
But Florida Evans did.

Perhaps Others’ roots are different,
where their ancesters came from;
roots for me are my past and my “training” –
others’ demand for my service, my body.
My momma didn’t raise me right,
            But Florida Evans did. 

Trust me – if I am in a room with a man
I can smell it, feel it,
attuned to it since I was two.
I smell the tobacco on your skin,
the testosterone underlayer –
I will respond to it both consciously and unconsciously.
My momma didn’t raise me right,
            But Florida Evans did. 

But part of will say “Have some pride.
Hide your passion, your willingness –
You are only what you decide to be!”
It’s not skin but pheramones –
what your skin encompasses
does not determine you.
My momma didn’t raise me right,
            But Florida Evans did. 

I know the difference
            between a darkening room and television;
I know desire does not begin
            with an upswelling of music –
more … people accepting what people are,
nature pulling against nature – completed in 30 minutes
letting situations become … Dy-no-mite.
My momma didn’t raise me right,
            But Florida Evans did.

And sometimes it is winning just to persevere –
resisting going to the common. Wait for the laugh.
Sometimes it is just waking up.
Sometimes it is just giving in.
My momma didn’t raise me right,
            But Florida Evans did. 


But At Night

But at Night

Yes, I’m a liberated woman,
Working side-by-side men;
Pulling my own weight.
I’m one of the guys.
During the day – listen to my opinions.
You damn well better be politically correct,
            Treat me as your equal.
During the day you damn well better treat
            Me as your equal. 

But at night –
            I want to let loose.
Bit at night – take me and give me your demands,
            Take me and give me your aggression.
But at night – rage your passions;
            Twist my hair and pull back my head.
Take me and pull off my clothes;
            Let me feel your hard hands claim me.
But at night – let me feel your mouth on my thigh;
            Let me fall on my knees, you standing in total trust.
At night, I am not your helpmate;
            I am your opposite, your challenge –  

And in the morning … you damn well better
            Treat me as your equal.



Taken In

Taken In


I was told
Following Tiger
Takes you into the jungle. 

Yes, that is where you take me,
Somewhere wild and humid,
Deep among vines
And pungent orchids,
And I am not safe. 

Though I do not particularly wish to be there,
There is something intoxicating,
Addictive in the experience. 

I am drawn back
Time and time again for yet another taste.





Red head caressed

My petal’s sensual flame.
Thy passion rose in it,
Drunk on
A river of secret honey.


Made My Bed

The emphasis is on the "pull"  <cynful grin> Hint; This is NOT making a bed; helps the reading if you have an extra pair of hands to help the "pulling".

Made My Bed


I make my bed every morning
            After I discipline my body with 2 miles of exercise
            And after my husband rises.
A  habit cultivated, I cannot leave
            For the day until my bed is made. 

Exhausted, I return to my bed
            & pull off the 12 year old blankets
Then straighten the wrinkles out of the sheets
            & pull their patterns flat.
Pick up the musty lavender velour, spread
            & pull its corners ‘til arranged
Letting its heavy sides cover the full bed
            & pull its sides until
                        Almost reaching the ground
                        Almost completely covering my bed frame.
And then the bedspread falls, arranging corners
            & pull down the sides until
Lilacs fall off my be, their flat patterns float
            & pull down & over.
I then gather the dark curtains that make my headboard
            & pull them back, morning light growing in them,
& then the pillows. I gather them
            & pull & plump & fluff then stand them
Arranging them until my bed looks
like a magazine cover
that would catch someone’s eye
at a newsstand until they reach over
            & pull it off the shelf to examine;
A flat picture that hints of rest & comfort
            & pulls you out of reality.
A habit cultivated, I cannot leave
            For the day until my bed is made. 


Driving To Dallas

Driving To Dallas


There is no pretending I don’t need you. 

My passion driving
            Like an Audi at eighty-five miles. 

I won’t pretend I’m not being consumed by need. 

I again turn to him
            And he cared for me,
As I cared for his needs
            When he was broken,
And he took me in
            Knowing of my need.
There is a long history there;
            We are not lovers but friends who love. 

I won’t need to pretend he is you. 

No tears this time will be shed -
            We retreat to his bed.
Not lovers,
            But friends who love;
He will shut the world out
            As we fall into his bed,
So familiar as when it lay
            Beneath his parents’ bedroom,
And he raised his passion
            To meet my desperate need –
I had immediate need of you
            And he filled it. 

There is no pretending. 

And as hunger and hope emptied,
            He filled that too.
For this time, my dammed need
            Is allowed to set our rhythm
And he allows me, passion
            Releasing and releasing again. 

Exhausted, we laid entwined
            In his arms and long legs.
There is no pretending they are yours.
            Not lovers, but friends who love.
But as he slept, still driven by you,
            I rose & purged myself of him;
Purged his sweat from my body,
            My body of his food,
My mouth of his taste,
            My core of his seed.
Purged it of everything that was not you
            And then, stripped again to my essence
I again returned to his bed;
            His arms habitually enfold me.
Not lovers, but friends who love. 

There is no pretending they are yours. 

He did not take offense,
            Even knowing as he did
The precautions I took – filling my womb
            Inhospitable to his seed.
We are not lovers. 

In the morning
            He will rise above me again
Aware that, heartbroken, passion unmatched
            Will drive me again without reason.
On instinct, on impulse;
            It will not be safe.
The day must be met
            But not alone – My layers fall,
Peeled away and our rhythm again
            Is paced by my incessant need.
He will console my desire again
            And then feed me as you will not,
Take me back into his life for that brief time
            Then let me drive away. 

We are not lovers now
            But friends who love. 

There is no pretending he is you. 

We are not lovers. Now.