Vanity hung, to glitter silver,

the young eyes watch, musing.

Already I see the age, the pull

of taut skin going slack,

the dull shine of eyes blue,

white leaching dark color from me

and spotting elsewhere, slowly,

bones pitted and mottled, stained

with each passing decade, the

fresh peach youth already dimming,

tipping so slight towards the end.


All I know that is is that rain never falls twice in the same place.

Dampness at my eyelids, sliding down cheeks, Hush my child,

it is merely rain. I am not cryin, those are not tears, and yet

even as the thunderclaps and the lightning sizzles ozone,

I am confronted with the loneliness of it all, silent and stoic,

palm trees flattened with the weight of rain, the wind which

screams like a woman and threatens to tip me over side,

to which all I can think is goddamn, this is my death

and I can only mutely watch as light burns and dark consumes,

that pain which slices deep, and you know, as I know,

that we never really speak of it though it’s there.


They stand against the glass, eyes the color of cinnamon, curry, chocolate.

Dusty, grimy, a decade’s hand-me-downs of bright pattern that cries

of hungry mouths, of hungry bellies rotund not with satiety, mimic fecundicity.

Tiny hands outstretched, eyes pleading, we need, we want, we desire.

In the mottled, fruit-ripe lush-dark heat of a tiny town in Mexico.

And in the market, the cries of vendors echoing to and fro,

teasing me of my pale flesh unprotected, though friendly, and painless,

their eyes speak the same song that calls to me, sings to me of pain

and a story that could tell a thousand souls the same old line, never twice.

We need, we want. We desire. We need, we need, we need you, your self,

in the jungle depths of Africa, the dense of a monsoon pressing at you.

Here, your shoulders weighted with the baskets of want, mistaken for need.

Your children crowding your ankles, tears at their eyes, hunger plain, evident.

We need, we want, we desire.

Body Language- 1(Septimal Hour)

I could write a book on you.

Lines mark boundaries, your hair an unwoven curtain.

There are some places that not even the sun can touch you.

I could write a novella of those eyes, dark sad depths that they are.

A sonnet for your hands alone, a quatrain for your lips and

a few disjointed lines for every bend. A line each for muscles;

biceps, triceps, abdominals, pectoralis, the slope of trapezium, the tight lines

of gluteals and quadricepts. A haiku for your jawline; diamond pattern

refrain for your aquilanic features. A book for you, my love, to treasure

when I slow with age, we both our own slow velocity to our literary end.

To Come, To Work, To Rise

Venir, Veni,

voluptous verbs villified

into the meaning of lust.

To come, have come, will come,

Travailler, travaillez

Travaillez pour vous, mon amour,

To work, to have worked. As we do, love,

Sur                                              Rise!

ren                                       To

der falls, the French sur

Innocent phrases for the dirty mind.


When it Rains

I remain, listening. The slither of a snake,

the soft hiss of rain down tin, I hear it.

I taste it, metallic, sugar-sweet,

a memory from some distant time.

The love of a history, the kiss of a past.

My peace fulfilled, my heart light.


It’s Not Rocket Science

The click of gears rusting, the brain slowing,

I feel it surely as can be, that groaning halt

as the great steel husks echo, a shuddering clang

that crashes through the empty air.

You point to the formula before me,

college young, youth fresh, frustrated.

“It’s not rocket science!” you fume, enfuriated

that my young brain cannot comprehend.

Algebra, your lover and I, we do not understand.

I don’t see y I should find out about your x.


Me and Etta James

singing, moaning, pain anew

humming the true blues.


I feel the softness of you, pressed against me.

Feather-light, blood-warm, sugar-sweet saltiness

that is you in the morning.

Your lips at my throat, your hands at my ribs,

fanning across the indentations like a blind man

searching for the Braille poetry of our desire,

salt, sweat, skin. Holy trinity.

Before I strip you of your wings

and we consume what is our Fate with relish,

hold me, cover me.

Alouette, gentille Alouette.


Our date by the sea, the restaurant (We are merely a temporary us,) a distraction from what is at last us.

You in your slacks, shirt, tie (tempted, separated by a callous hand of fate), not yet, not yet. Not now, you whisper.

I in my pearls and black velvet,(side by side we remain) striding in the beach. My high heels are

sinking into sand, (painful, we know this ending tale) and I remember the way, you know how my mind goes,

of blinding pain, and like Anderson’s mermaid I am mute (joking, laughing, loving, and internally maimed), though we are

laughing at the follies of Romans and Greeks (and Ulysses and Poseidon’s strife have nothing on this), the vanity of them,

I imagine for once those black heels thrown to sea (sailing to our own worlds, to part), a paltry mortal offering

to a jealous sea-witch(god, how we wish for the inevitable) to be spared in this final moment, our moment, to be.

That happily (never.)ever-after.