Cuban Heels and the White Balloon

there was a large pale sun
in a greenish sky
where i in a deck chair,
on an Atlantic beach,
wrapped your breasts around my apple
which was about to be eaten in
one big red bite.
the nearby coffee-colored sand,
upon which sat the
handsome buttocks of a lady
with a flower fully in her mouth,
felt warm and wet between my fingers.
then a steady breeze returned,
and she put on black tights and a pair
of Cuban heels as the white balloon
rose into our night sky.
i began making
preparations for bed, which was radiating heat.
there, she became a small reclining nude
cradling her head in her hands,
a soft green leaf
resting on her right thigh.
imagining myself the gardener, i entered to water her plants.
it was late summer before we awoke to watch
our reflections sleeping in a mirror.

the blue butterfly

a bright blue butterfly was
sniffing the wet spring air near my
foot trail, her wings moving purposefully.
she was hanging from a helpful tree
as I passed by without my net.
I was searching for the trench I heard tell of,
dug several hundred years ago by prisoners
of a continental army, having been captured in
New Jersey, after having been sent by a greedy European
King in exchange for lots of money.
and perhaps I did find the trench, for what I did see might have
been the trench, leading from a small fresh-water creek
to a nearby foundry where cannon balls and shot were once formed.
but over time, wind, water, rock, and wood filled in the trench with
all sorts of dirt and forest junk, leaving only a shallow depression
where once was a mighty ditch of great consequence.
now all I saw was a long, angled depression and realized that
no simple geological explanation made sense.
this find must have been the trench, I mused,
and the blue butterfly seemed to agree.

The Dream

the bloodstain was very discreet,
not at all an oozing gob of gore:
a tiny smear of red hiding among the shadows,
the details of its' origination lost in a folded sheet
underneath the sweetest candle on Christmas Day.
there was an elaborate tea party downstairs
where all the fires were lit
and guests with their presents were seated
in a large black leather chair which wrapped around them
like a shroud.
although they dreamed of climbing to the second floor,
to the bedroom where my forehead stretched over an entire pillow,
it was closed to their entry in spite of the richness of their gifts.
i sat naked with the bloodstain, quiet in a deep brown armchair.
the stone in my hand would soon become a woman
who would dance on my mind with her mouth.

in quest of movement

breasts and arms
both playmates near my neck
the wall clock ticking
effortless licking
my eerie little head
never far from bed
exploring in the light and shadow
in quest of movement
but how far can i go
before i reach the lowest toe
of that very nice girl
who has rhythm inside of her curls?
will she be nimble and quick
or full of nothing but bulk?
the arrangement of flowers is yours
and the misty, out-of-focus contours
are mine
the light-footed dancer
bottom-heavy on my chest
in a fit of irony
settles down to rest
while i, like a sculpture of a reclining nude,
bide my time for the praise which is sure to come
as i wiggle my thumb
without strength; in fact it's almost weak
in my newly contemplative technique,
which is anything but unique.

The king and his Lady

the King was having a siesta
and instead of sleeping on his ass
he put his eyes between his legs
to watch his testicles play the organ.
a fascinating insight, he once thought, simply using a hand instead of a mouth.
when the Lady wearing a bathing costume came
into his room, she was clutching an inner tube and smoking a
cigarette up her nostril, gypsy style.
on their royal bed, she slowly reattached his head.
when he awoke, he saw her breasts hanging firmly on her forehead,
asked her to lean closer, and when she did, smoothly threw a leg
over her oiled back to get a better look.
her body parts were his favorite part of the day.

On-again, off-again: Gertrude and Alice in Paris

And Sir Francis Rose was a dud
bleeding what little genius he held
on the red carpet where the girls often spent
the night
stitching themselves to an ever smaller
less significant circle of friends:
those remaining few who had not yet disqualified
themselves by ringing an inner bell louder
than Gertrude's inner bell could be rung.
but she was a fancy washer woman toiling ceaselessly
cleaning the stains, flushing the drain with her own
interpretations until it was as fine a drain as could be found
in all of Paris by the mid-1920s.
once, she recognized genius.
but as time wore into her reputation, her threadbare dress stretched
over different angles, contemplating the fullness of the Earth.
She added legs as well as arms and a majestic nose, but couldn't
smell a friendship if it was in a separate place from where she sat.
once her secret, an orange flower fell to the floor like an old book
with many pages missing, and the spine was broken.

Ice-Nine

I saw little Red Riding Hood
sitting on a mushroom cap
looking like a caterpillar
simply taking her nap.
The Tin Men surrounded her
each holding an Atomic bomb
while Captain Kirk went boasting
he discovered Major Tom
who was lying on a city street
where a Mother could heard him cry:
news reporters flew into a rage
but no one asked them why.
And behind the door to nowhere
the White Witch drove her train;
she held the throttle open wide
to see what she could gain;
on her floor Miss Dorothy
kept piling yellow bricks,
so Alice called the Queen outside
and blinded her with tricks.
Soon a space ship called Apollo
on a mission to the moon
found David Bowie singing
with his Ziggy Stardust spoon.
He pleaded for a bathroom break
as two riders came his way;
but Neil Armstrong told him "Negative":
we ALL were here to stay.
Then a ghostly sound like sirens
came echoing round the hall
when Vonnegut in Cat's Cradle
used Ice-Nine to end his call.
but the operator was intrepid,
ran outside and threw her fist:
he thought that he could hang up,
but she found him on her list.

snow showers

snow showers
not the hot showers i shared with you
hit my face and melted
drops of memory where i once
licked my lips
fed me until noon.
when it felt safe
i left my chair;
hundreds of people saw me glide past
looking for directional signs:
their arrows poked out at me
worked me into a quick sweat
urged a decision
the nearest one said to go particularly slow
but i was in a hurry.
i saw one woman who held a note
it said i might be lost
so i tried to stop
but the slope was steep and i fell.
i went into a slide and found a hole
without a rabbit or a girl
no patrol rushed to my aid, yet i stayed calm.
i looked to the overhead sky full of clouds:
there was no sun, no hint of a shadow under the closest tree,
and no fresh track which i might have followed
as i followed you in my dreams.
i started to get cold
and was finally able to move.
it was already after lunchtime when i stood up and licked my lips.

that's what i believe

i found no turban on the slopes of a mountain
in Colorado, where i went for a 1554 beer and a
ride on the chair; there was no Middle Eastern illiterate businessman
telling me he knew what was good for me when i
flew through the evergreen trees with the greatest of ease.
no holy texts or final revelations whispered in my ear trying to allay my fear
of big bumps and steeper slopes.  i easily imagined a cartoon
when i saw the face of intolerance and that face wanted poster style
to preach to me about a plagiarized religion even though my true
revelation was knowing wax helped me glide over all resistance.
the lift attendant who practiced intolerance on a friend carrying
an invalid ticket quickly allowed that friend a cushioned seat when the ticket had
been guaranteed fit and proper by a higher authority, but there was no
Heaven, no Angel whispering into any ear, and certainly no threats in the
boarding line.  this higher authority was a customer service employee without a beard.
riding to the breathless top, i saw no black granite monolith surrounded by thousands
of stone throwing zealots; no back packs were heard exploding during happy hour, but
there was a bomb throwing ski patrol technician hoping to avert an
afternoon avalanche.  and i found Chair 6 closed; E was also closed as the winds
blew in a forceful change of stormy weather, biting at my face.
the girl in a green skin-tight suit laughed about being out-of-date,
but her voice was like a momentary kiss.
when the sun eventually rode into a dusty blue sky, crowds of people stood
for hours waiting for their opportunity to be free of idols and the pulpit
where pompous strangers preached about where to ski, what line to take,
and how to use the poles.
when i eventually found Lost Boy, it was near the ski area boundary;
my gliding path on the snow was my own creation and i claim that right.
that's what i believe.