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Flashes & Verses…Becoming Attractions

Adrian Ernesto Cepeda

Copyright©2018 Adrian Ernesto Cepeda

Published by Unsolicited Press


… to everyone who every sparked these solitary rhymes

I thank—

Mami for the gift of la poesía

Papi, gracias por creer siempre en mi

Michelle por la inspiración, my wife,

Las Palis for the power to poder,

todos at Antioch University

Los Angeles,

my familia, extended

et al—

las poetas, in my vida life.


The Sound of Surprise

When those cheeks expand and he exhales

his breath within notes, as his horn blows,

I almost explode, Dizzy with enlightenment.

There’s something about the rhythm, the heir

of his playing, speaking with his mouth

and expressing such beauty on his canvas

of air, gripping his golden trumpet,

and all of the treasures he gifts us, even

when the vinyl is crackling back to the

Swing Low, Sweet Cadillac eyes closed

ears open, feeling the wind alone

as Gillespie takes us, each slight return

so adventurous, while reaching inside

his melody lingers resounding this cheeky

giant from his distance, sonically appearing

even as the needle uplifts us,

we feel closer to home.

Remember when Michael Jackson was king?

As the lights turned off

this was the day our class

stopped—to see him dance

the day we dreamed of Billie Jean,

watching his white glove glowing,

his silver sparkle gliding each

step a man moonwalking,

no one was talking we were

all shouting, the day our teacher

kissed the screen, leaving lipstick

on the TV, even she felt

with each move, gripping

that day the microphone

turned up his volume…

ovations more than standing,

from all that feedback,

that day we knew

—he was the one.

Estranged Fruit

Billie Holiday feels it

while gripping her microphone

unsteady, nerves pulsating through

her veins, instead of slurring words

she croons in the softest pitch,

her audience melts, gasping

in this siren’s reflections

with surprising breaths. Their standard

pitchfork epitaphs are stilled. Billie stakes

her claim. Calming these beasts

stirring rhythms. The crowd devours

the blues tradition she slithers,

forgetting her own addiction and pain,

while serenading songs of love, every

night, she hides softly inside these

reflective refrains. Outside the Cotton

Club she is invisible, but instead she

smooths audiences with her voice

of beauty, adored by all who hear her –

their tongue-tied nooses swinging

colorblind for now. Putting their hands

together, clapping feedback chimes,

opening new ears while Billie shares more

boa, feathers—in the longest nightclub

dress, her hair held-up, uncurling style,

a spotlight of shivers— exposing her

roots. And they embrace true tones of her

every rainbow chorus key, inside this place,

Holiday rhymes a new sound of sweetness

she coolly redefines. Lady Day stuns –

lighting the stage without matches –

glowing proudly in her smokiest flame.

When Billie croons she can almost feel

the gift of her audience’s embrace.

Bathed in applause of a lighter shade of

love, no longer caged—they can almost

feel her wings; on stage, this blackbird

rising in this roomful of doves.

When Bumaye was Beautiful

“The African crowd began to shout “Ali bumaye!, Ali bumaye! [before his fight against George Foreman]. Ali began getting energized. Muhammad Ali turned toward me and smiled.”

Curtis E Mozie

Still floating like a butterfly

from your red glove filled

with fists of love just ask

the Foreman, Liston and Frazier

side stepping in that ring like

a dancer, two step jab romancer

still stinging boxers endlessly.

We can still hear the bell

and all the raps from your tongue

and even Cosell’s microphone

loves the rhymes of your charming spell.

And even the Beatles wanted to get in the

ring with you and not even The Man

of Steel could never destroy you.

And on Different Strokes the way you beat

the Gooch on the phone without even

landing a hit. And because the power

of your voice, gave to my skinny refrain

as I worshiped your Adonis frame.

As the camera flashed immortality

your battles were more than just a fist in

the face full of game. I may have stuttered

every other word but with every punch

you gave me courage to stand up

stammering words without my shame.

As I sat from behind witnessing

your sweating arms raised to infinity,

I raised mine when opening my mouth

spitting out rhymes like a stuttering

symphony. And to me you’re still floating

like a butterfly and punching syllables

fighting to knock the world out with a

smile softer than Clay, echoing Cassius

like Jesus on the cross even in defeat

your bouts were my religion, even

in my tears you never lost; side stepping

in that ring like a dancer, two step jab

romancer, still stinging boxers endlessly.

And when I say Ali, still weaving

your bobbing head like a champion

as you mumble with greatness—

“the greatest was me.”

Re-turning Point

I see la niña Chiquita shaped like a banana

on the handle bars playing like me;

sometimes she calls me her dulce de leche.

She looks almond joy, like falling coconuts

unwrapped with skin of the sweetest café

sugar, stirring in a hurry, running so free.

Sitting together, we share the same

grades. Drifting off in history class,

these pages claim we are strangers,

but when I hear her sonrisa,

Chiquita laughs just like me.

She taught me la cucaracha,

trading almuerzos during lunch time—

when Billy called her an alien,

I punched this goon in the face.

Mi amiga didn’t come far,

far away from a Star Wars galaxy

and the darkest side of an Endor moon.

Mommy, Chiquita’s coming over to trade

discos. We want to go Platform shoe

dancing, and talk like telenovelas

chismando endlessly; but behind the

nodding, unfriendly look coming

from my Mummy’s furious face

with the way I sound speaking in sí,

I can tell something is definitely wrong

but not with me.

Hanging Above You

I feel these strangers—

so-called art aficionados

exhibiting their inherit shoves

of selfishness just to immortalize

my love, as she’s flashing down

below her so many demanding

strangers with iPhone cameras

instamatic lenses focusing

on her distant frame dramatically

fighting for pricelessly disposable

moments— just to catch, post, send

and redevelop this vision

that once captured my love

with what da Vinci proclaimed

was his La Gioconda sight. Exciting,

and so blinding, my love,

and she’s not going anywhere.

There is no privacy for my love,

no time for powder, no makeup, no eye

liner, her portrait behind ropes, this

place where you could say

she resides, le Musée du Louvre,

I know she would love to break

more than bread maybe share

a baguette with me, my love,

and un bouteille d'eau

minérale avec du citron

to keep her widest exposure—

go figure. But she is still here suspended

in silence, my love, longing

for a touch of more than a stranger’s

smart phone attention. So tight

lipped with so many stories

I bet my love wishes she could sell—

through this canvas on this exhibition

stage. Would she deny to truly

love the flash of devotion her canvas

smirk ignites? If you’re lost in Paris,

come by and see my love before you

expire, sometime. Some probably know

her as the song Nat King Cole crooned

immortalizing, her face framed

and estranged to your vision;

waiting on your picture

to capture my love, Leonardo’s

priceless muse, hanging

above you—forever enshrined.

His Strange Fascination, Still Fascinates Me

Like you

I’m an oddity from space—

a lad insane,

a scary monster

a super creep

who loves earbud listening

to let’s dance while dancin’ in the street.

You can also call me a rock and roll

suicide, this young American among

the stars like a Buddha of Suburbia—

I’m a still alive Lodger hanging

low tonight. How could I forget

my ashes to ashes? Like my heroes,

I’m flicking fame with fashion,

this quicksand Hunky Dory life

in this Suffragette city

sans regrets. As my iPod shuffles

Where Are We Now? This next one

is for my Bewlay Brothers: Joe the Lion,

Rebel Rebel and the Diamond Dogs,

Ziggy Stardust spinning so many changes

like Cat People putting out fires with

gasoline, pondering with a match, is there

really Life on Mars? Why am I afraid

of Americans? Time is a little wonder

like a Jean Genie screaming

over this heart’s filthy lesson?

Let me loosen my Black Tie with this

white noise, share my internal

conversation pieces; will I survive

these …hours, like Kooks in Blue Jeans?

Bring me the Disco King,

this Starman will tell you: Nothing

has changed, everything

has changed; David Bowie

am I’m deranged?

Feeling unwashed and somewhat slightly

dazed—you, The Thin White Duke

told me to write this thirty-eight

line poem in a Moonage Daydream.

Not a Perfect Day

Turning up my boom box

now static, walking down

reeling out of tune on 5th avenue,

every Street Hassle lyric oozes your name

from every corner, my rock and roll heart

you would rip my soul with riffs

and then tear these holes apart

with rhythms from your bells—

ringing your understated rhymes

what happened to your journeys

behind those sunglasses? I would

hang your lyrics just like paintings,

your albums were my museums,

the wax of your sound

was my favorite kind of art.

You used to croon monotone

song stories, how your voice

would seize me,

shake me, awaken me

from my knees. How I miss

every part of your Hudson River

Wind Meditations, only

my dark thoughts could

understand; even the gutters,

high rises and exhaust fume

symphonies know it,

without my favorite poet,

NYC has become a wordless

wasteland as I spray paint,

Lou Reed, I Love You,

my message on this mailbox.

Who needs an uptown street map

when I can take the Lexington 1-2-5 ?—

with your songs I always understand

your verses were my favorite direction;

wandering without your chorus,

I’m still waiting for you— my man.

Stoned Immaculate: Jim Morrison Lies Here

I was the Lizard King and once I slithered

through my microphone cord. My leathers

are now stretched to squeeze tighter

inside this sonnet. Let me take you from

my palace, where I roamed in Paris.

The wisdom from Père Lachaise,

the cemetery where I once was laid.

Cerebrally electric, turned on, awakened

to feel unburied absolutely alive, wanting

to reopen the doors of perception but

I’m locked inside this confined rhyme

scheme. Feel me slithering plans

of disorder, start a religion of free verse,

seducing poetry with my Soft Parade, so

much harder to release The End, you knew

my lines keep growing wider as each loud

climactic scream grips my point of view;

exposes me long to be unzipped and

break on through.

His Microphone Eyes

Still flashing, Sinatra’s ice cube reflects

her lipstick glass once stained half-full.

He remembers drinking her smooth

aftertaste still cold yet eternally stirring,

thicker with so much fire from her acid

tongue. The legend of Vegas went all in

with her flame, on every hand, placing the

Sands microphone on his chest— Frank

could still feel the confession’s feedback.

Though his full house decked two of a

kind flushed with grins, the two

honeymooning lovers would play pretend,

but even with diamond rings,

their shuffling hands always folded in the

end. The glass from her once cocky bottle

stirs half empty now. The ice cracks, Frank

bites down, chewing time again, colder

now. The thrill still stings, ring finger

chilled, as Sinatra jingles his silver cufflinks

to recall the heat, when his black laced

feet could make her swing. He blushes

brighter with the orchestra tighter,

her sound perfumes; the aroma sends him

into the spotlight back to this stage

as Frank inhales her refrain that flash his

angel eyes, returning the silhouette

shadows of two lovers’ flames consumed

by desire, glancing at the wings forever

fading… yet, their encore endures; in

between applause, his microphone grins;

the audience can see Sinatra sliding his

palm under his tuxedo, those wrinkled

hands pledging his heart—as Frank replies

softly inside each beautiful croon with

misty blue eyes that always remember…

she was my Ava Gardner.

Sitting in Black and White

On a London soundstage,

this camera focuses on his powdered face

trying to smile between missed takes,

Charlie seized the charming sunflower;

spinning her in his hands

glowing in circles like his woman in Paris.

Before reaching another

gold rushed idea,

his mind sparked twitches

like a flickering light bulb,

almost ready to switch on.

Chaplin concentrates

on this dizzy flower;

could it feel like riding

a child’s bicycle?

Even from the rafters somewhere,

his concentration, close-up,

you could tell his eyes

focusing as the sunflower spins

reigniting inspired,

in a London soundstage,

legs crossed,

cane at his side,

glimpsing as the rushing colors sing,

within these magical petals,

underneath his spotlight,

blinking faster, tramping closer

under his charming spell,

Charlie waited for the laughter

to begin.

The Sol of Sinatra

Even the palm trees knew

to umbrella their shade

for this blue-eyed king

of the moon, glowing

icy smoke, while leaning

on Sunset…

Sinatra’s fedora cool—

always melting


… easily, and I didn’t

How could I get over someone

like Marlon. He spoiled me—

whispering lines like an Adonis,

with a voice that mumbled proudly.

You have to understand, we

consummated that marriage every night

on the stage for many months, the way

we stared, glaring at each other like

husband and wife, we wanted to tear each

other’s clothes off, and then again on

the film set that tension, never mention,

some nights I can taste him, that desire

still dripping on my softest of lips. I still

smell him—clean and sweet, dirty foul-

mouthed muscular baby—and I can feel

that back, the way he stood against

that wall daring me to take him, showing

so much skin and his mouth pouting with

such furious candor. So many nights I

wanted to bite him, I could feel him

teasing, coyly toying with me with his

menacing silence. What no one could

hear was the way Brando would poetically

murmur, softly enunciating as he flexed

his tongue muscles muttering filthy pet

names, for me, as Stanley would, in my

ear. I could go on, and I wake up drenched

in that fire, wanting to take him

backstage with my husband sitting over

there but I carry his sensual smells,

Brando always lotioned his body up, I

inhaled his sweetest sensations, seducing

me his Stella, slow like a streetcar. I

imagine him crawling from the wood on

our stage, I hear him breathing, so wildly

naked with rage like a beast wanting to

get inside me and some nights, I didn’t

fight him. Would you? Some days I wish I

did let him scar me with his beautiful

scent that way I could revisit his wicked

touch. I never had him and yet, I would

never beg anyone’s pardon. We stood this

close as bride and groom; easily and I

didn’t—I never got over his Stanley.

Looking at Her

People had a habit of looking at me as if I were some kind of mirror instead of a person.

--Marilyn Monroe

She loved disappearing

in front of me. Changing

from one face to another.

She could be a sweet Tinsel Town

ingénue one minute and the deep

soft sultry million-dollar voice

the next. She sat in silence

among the clinking glasses

fidgeting with her near perfect hair

as if a camera had sprung into action,

while taking wild sips of wine

as if auditioning for a part.

Lighting her smoke to say, Relax,

it’s just dinner. Rising again

she mumbled quickly

I will return.

Checking my pocket watch,

I rushed to the ladies’ room.

Knocking on the door, I asked

Are you still there?

Pushing in the door, I enquired

Is everything okay?

She was looking at the mirror.

What are you doing, love?

She stood in front of her favorite stall,

whispering: I’m looking at her,

like the way you glare at one of your

creations on the page. She is mine.

As if she was staring at a stranger’s twin.

Softly kissing her hungry reflection,

staying beautifully present,

this is how I loved Marilyn;

clicking her fingers—

taking imaginary photographs—

posing with her always radiant wink.

She Returns Framed in Darknessi

As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.”

Anne Sexton

I could never

wash off your scent, more

than water-colors my skin,

still glowing with your most beautiful

scars, wiggling underneath

all the places that you starred.

I can still taste where you kissed,

and the faces that flamed your touches

still strokes my secret yearning

so hard to hide the rise of my cravings

always concealing so much;

I loved your lips above me

canvasing my skin, brushing

me nakedly, palates of our

tongues, some nights I still

retaste you in darkness, each

gesture conjuring your texture,

your rhythms, your intensity my favorite—

always ready to exhibit these nightly

painting eruptions—your colorful

sparks, reaching with abstract

expressions to conjure your traces,

mentally framing impressions,

brushing your senses, your canvas

presence always reveals, imagine

your memory always wet, still

dripping softly above me.

When I First Kneeled Down

To taste her

under Rosa’s favorite pink lingerie

as I would rub her grinning thigh

while feeling her up, I know

she could feel my instant hesitation.

Rosa’s legs felt all prickly, unshaved

when her skin was like a cactus tree

she would whisper—

pretend we’re in Paris;

during our secret dance, she hummed

the softest Sarah Vaughan tune;

I pictured the sweetest accordions

arching me closer enjoying each curve

from my Champs-Élysées

while canvasing her body,

Rosa showed me all her secret places,

rediscovering so much more than her hair

her voice was my map.

Wet like the Seine,

splashing much deeper, my face

licking up her sweetness

from so many layers,

now it was her turn for cravings.

With her teeth unzipping a favor,

remembering her glare, so sweetly

her hunger so intensely demanding,

but I didn’t care; our mouths

traveled further, her lips softly

serenading, she inspired how

we loved devouring

each other, feasting our senses

each taste so enticing,

every space we uncovered

still savoring all the faces

we most decadently shared.

Guiding me from the Sidewalk

With your mom jeans rolled

up to your knees, wanting to

run off under the branches,

you softly unzipping, spread your lips

like we used to on the grass,

lick your bushes, feel you blush

grab your cheeks from behind

clutching your softest handles

I love to hold. I can tell you want

me to climb deeper, reaching inside

I can taste your thirst, from your

exploring tongue, as I feel you

whisper let’s forget the bars.

Through the cold, we chorus

our voices, this time the Redline

covers our loudest tremble, as the train

rumbles by, you hear me falling—

gliding on top, loving your wiggles

taking me harder, blinking softer

under your tight blouse, I reach

to feel under your lace, so much

softness squeezing tighter, knowing

this is our last outing, remember

our Chicago winter? As the wind-chill

froze us, it felt so simple, forgetting

the wrinkles, blue jeans on

your ankles and our clinking

buckles, before the melting—

I still see you glow.

Her Moon Over Los Angelesii

I love the way she leans

against the balcony

teasing over Sunset

Boulevard, Chateau Marmont

showing off her beautifully round

skin, ready for me to honor her

cheekiest glow; before my telescope

lens angles… her close-up reminds me,

even astronomers at Griffith Park

Observatory would be focusing

their eyes past Hollywood signs,

as her sunset strips

and traffic down below

would try adjusting their mirrors

she shines so eloquently

already knowing

I have the most perfect view

our city of Angels; I wish

you could feel, from the balcony

as exhaust perfumes, how palm

trees bow their heads to this beauty,

as her fullest moon spreads

softly for me.

Destination Santa Barbara

She said, take me here

pointing south to her

wettest private beaches,

let’s create our own waves

she whispered taking

giant breaths rippling under

covers, dripping skinny

like taking in the deepest

oceans as my salty tip

rises, I know she tastes

the splashes of excitement,

gripping her wavy hair,

feeling she is diving closer,

I tidal over from so many

back strokes— smiles while

pruning in ecstasy already

forgetting Santa Barbara—

becoming like the sea.

On the Balcony of The Signature

I like her; I could watch her

the rest of my life.”

Philip K. Dick

As my best man handed me

a bubbly drink we toasted

clinking clear glasses of Cristal,

during our Vegas wedding

reception the way he pointed

to my love in white as she gathered

cheek kissing bridesmaids with giggles

while hugging my distant Colombian

relatives—at that moment, through

the brightening breeze, I whispered

aloud: we’re married—The Signature

balcony had awakened me

as I realized at that moment,

glimpsing her within new light—

for the first time, this same

stunning beauty glowing

before me, I now call her—

my wife.

No More… Quiet Symphonies

More than just Vivaldi’s strings,

play me so loudly, becoming French

horns and trumpets from lips—

a serenade of Mozart so proudly.

And what about cellos, between

her legs, longing for a bow

to spark the right place,

in the middle, even the last

note would beg reaching Bach

for his soft coda. I love all

the symbols crashing together

like metal bodies, Ludwig Van’s

ears ringing in harmonies, rising

prelude before for the climax,

we can feel your hands conducting

the orchestra’s last grandioso

breath, our exhales resounding

this grandiose of Mahler

Resurrection symphony

before the encore— Tremolos

in unison, more than a concerto,

bravo Maestro, for exploring

the energico faces

of our sextet epiphany.

We Couldn’t Even Afford To Go Inside

I can still taste the air of sativa clouds,

in our loft apartment, as we spent our last

dollars on dime bags— joints rolled with

pages from our favorite novellas. Ivy

always refused to give up her Catcher in

the Rye, so I offered my Sun Also Rises.

She was more of a starving artist, than

me, foregoing any meal just to hunger

herself for inspiration. All I ever heard was

her stomach growling for leftover pasta;

I always brought home leftovers from the

diner— the place I worked nights to pay

the rent as she painted on bed sheets like

naked canvases.

We never could afford paper.

I remember the way she would draw

sketches coloring away on napkins in

between sips, from those downtown coffee

shops. Ivy would fill herself up with

caffeinated eyes to enliven her bong hit

highs— afterwards we would go wandering

around the library searching for new

adventures in pages. I still remember all

those books we checked out; we had stacks

of so many unread volumes; our books

would stay there like our imaginary pets

and our invisible children calling our

names through our clouds of smoke.

We just could never return them—

Just Kids was my favorite.

On other days we would visit the Art

Institute. I got my best ideas from Patti

Smith’s book. We only had enough change

for one ticket, so one of us would go in

and film the art exhibits with our iPhones—

while the other one waited

and watched from outside.

I went to the Jackson Pollock exhibit.

It wasn’t Ivy’s style.

She claimed Pollock’s paintings were

rainbow semen collages—

and I would argue, what’s wrong with

that? Ivy would just sit there grinning,

her goal was always to get a rise out of

me, so she could get me to slip inside her,

again. This time it was my turn to go

inside; though I longed to share Pollock’s

cum paintings with her, reluctantly

I entered the museum alone.

Filming everything from the inside,

I don’t remember much of the exhibit,

but I do recall peering outside

and seeing Ivy across the street, bus stop

leaning while smoking another of her

hand rolled Bugle cigarettes.

When my cell phone ran out of juice,

I went out to meet her.

Ivy would always run up

and hug me, tongue first,

in my mouth like an airport greeting.

I loved the way she missed me.

I remember our last day together,

heading back uptown, holding hands

while she softly rested

her head on my shoulder,

walking closer to me, Ivy whispered,

blowing smoke against the Chicago wind—

I promise you, one day we’ll go together,

and the world will be all ours.”

We never did.

Forget The Weight

Stop looking down while eyeing

this scale, why can’t you face,

it’s only a number and I desire

you in lace? Let me rediscover

your widest of regions when

you slip on those tightest

panties, feel me panting closer,

embracing your full moon

reflection—sparks the rising

and uncertainty of my only

up and coming attraction.

You always ignite me, with

your widescreen thighs. I love

you heavy, my beauty, I want you

like the Abbey Road epic. Can

you feel me, reaching for you,

with my riffs of desire? You

are my favorite guitar, long

neck and body so wide. The duet

of our conversation: your mind

is the rhythm, your voice the chorus—

I want to play your softest chords,

creating the most beautiful music in

between your thighs. All the skin

of excess you see, leading me to

your voluptuous palace, I love

to enter. I crave your sweetest face

when you lick the bottom, emptying

all the plates. Under the table, feeling

you slip off those heels, erotically

playful with your feet. Check please…

watching you shake so deeply

distracted by your beauty you

wiggle on repeat. Hungering

for more than your curvaceous

vision; dessert is my cherry on top—

spooning at home under these sheets.

With every kiss you forget the scales,

remembering with every lick gushing

your loudest pleasures unleashes

everything below your belt, desire

all of your wrinkles; simply, every

stretchmark I find, I must entreat—

with every thrust you love my touch…

enraptures me with your body

temple, seeing above me, worship

every love handle I savor with licks

hoping you finally feel me, of all

I suck—you taste so sweet.

Can We Spoon One Last Time?

Like our bodies felt the cusp

of your breath, ordering

your AM coffee, drinking

me up, all my darkest flavors

was your favorite caffeinated

climb. With every sugar spooned

like your lace and sometimes taking

it black when looking back, under

our table still day dreaming I can feel

your uncrossed legs waiting for me

maybe with extra whip cream

when I felt wet like the dream,

dripping so many licks tonguing

so sweet, how our lips defined.

Do I still stir you?

Sometimes spilling me softly

wondering my love, could we

spoon and maybe foam me,

savoring just one last grind?

Even Chicago reminds,

our neighbors felt the steaming

sounds and how I truly loved

how you tasted so divine.

Every last sip, I must confess,

feels like I am rediscovering

the flavors of every undressed trace.

So delicious, so hot will you grip

one last request, can we spoon

again in our most private space?

Leftover Bear Claws

 If time eats the doughnut, does love eat the hole?

–Tom Robbins

A mouthful of Mocha crumbs fires
two-day old Dunkin Donuts
from her cracked mug—
chewing me softly,
she spits the same old after-bites
towards my glazed silhouette.
Her appetite hungers for a taste
more filling than my jelly flavored
crush. Staring chocolate iced—
I feel her aiming powdered sugar bullets,
softly triggering more blame,
leaving me shattered
like chalk outlines—
she loves finding a dozen reasons
sprinkling me into dust.

Love at the Soviet Kitchen, 1980

"Sex was never as neat as the movies made it. Real sex was messy. Good sex was messier."

Laurell K. Hamilton

Forget that vodka bottle,

give me a sink full of your dirtiest dishes,

let me soap you up, scrub suds off

your grayest stained warm ups—

sans socks loving you barefoot,

the nakedness of your toes,

let me take you here

on freezing gulag winter floors

brushing aside our broken broom

as I adore your handles my love, feel

through your over-sized Olympic hockey

tee reaching your bra-less chest,

such a treasure I must confess,

to feel you like this, so unclean;

my favorite faucet wet dream…

keeping me awake, craving

Dr. Zhivago fantasies—

you can be my master

and I will be your margarita dream.

Let me stir you,

taste you with my cigarette breath

relight your nicotine lips,

tongue vacation after dinner,

not enough for dessert,

let me whip cream your hips,

licking every drop as you undress,

spooning closer
among the crusted utensils

of our rusty silver wear; as I slide down

your stained white panties, reaching

for my favorite part, licking off

all your saltiest sweat, hungers me—

why go out when there’s all I can eat,

staying within me, feeling your candle

reignite, I love seeing your ‘devour me

all my desert thighs’ look melting me;

I can feel the flair in your eyes

undressing me with your lipstick

smeared look—

I’m already there, indulging

our priceless longings,

by taking down the ribbon

and inhaling all the beautiful greasy curls

of your unwashed blizzard hair.

Take Me to the Aquarium and Make Out with Me in the Jelly Fish Roomiii

Drop me from your soaked

and sweating pedestal

as I push your silver sterling cane

aside and put me up against this

antiquated glass, see through

my deflowered blouse that still

breathes your beaten name, gasping

while I salivate my favorite

of those plastic wrapped minty lips

tasting for you; me already netted,

our catch and hook reclaimed.

No more fowl mood, I’m hungry

for your early bird afternoon

special. I want to feel your drying

deviled tongue explore my still

wettest wrinkled sensations, sprinkling

of late December seasons tickling me

with your underwater shivers. Even

though your back’s embraced I know

you can deliver. And maybe we’ll rehash

us young by the waterfront Marlon Brando

and Eve Marie Saint like as you swam

dripping skinny towards the deepest

of my untouched regions, I remembered

you once treasured. Let us worship the

spine and tingling again and salvage

those now ancient across the pond

love letters sent par avion through

enveloping red, white and blue thoughts;

let me salvage those once longing

thoughts, we somehow dropped off

at the Salvation Army. I long to lick

your distant eternal fountain pen,

again, inked so divine as we uncover

instant waves, wishing your dog tagged

nakedness to reawaken me from your

symphonic nap; forget your fedora,

surprise me arising like a conductor

and I will string along your Hallelujah

chorus memory. Take me in this

aquarium, splash us closer, reaching

clenched, we will be drenched in smiles.

Watch the jelly fishes eyeing our pruning

wrinkles, seems so simple as shining skin

imagines us as lovers swimming

through tanks clasping our breath;

reminding us, to not stay in the shadows

as ignored background silhouettes. Let us

drool so much louder and they will hear

our once primal voices, roaring and proudly

now becoming redefined.

Her Eyes Hesitate…

I still remember serenading

her, the softest bilingual whispers

over her glowing wrinkled skin,

loving the body of her softest

poems as she scratches me

with fingernails while dangling

her keys, I can feel her

unbuttoning my fly, as I am

sporting my Iggy Pop tee,

she asks me while blinking,

will you be my Passenger, always

waiting for our next secret

entanglement— as our hands meet,

our touches conversing, Rosa’s PhD

giggles ring unconvincing

as my belle accentuates her deep

southern reasoning— “I promised

my Papa, no more poets.”

She quietly mouths while

gently running electric fingers

through my unwashed hair.

I can tell as she blinks loudly,

she undresses me. Her fingers

like cursive writing

as Rosa slips off her heels

exposing barefoot—

her toenails painted red

as the pedal rests in neutral.

Rosa signals, keeps eagerly

flashing me as we steam

the windows while necking like

teenagers; she keeps leaning

closer, her shirt cut lowers—

I crave when her hands direct

me to her most delicious midriff,

I love when she wants me to softly

kiss all her beautiful wrinkles.

Knowing how much I live

for making our music electric

with so many sparks, she lives

for teasing me, playing with

the radio dial, no static between

us, she is already turned on—

her volume louder I stare slowly,

while contemplating chords,

intricate her guitar like memory…

as she reaches softly—

unfastening my seatbelt,

eyes flashing like spotlights—

I can feel the unbuttoning

of her stars.

Book Like My Woman

Although she tried to conceal it,

I looked at her spine first;

Like a library book,

she is often handled but never checked

out – never judge a paperback

by the front cover. Flipping

towards our introduction,

I like to feel, running fingers

up and down under the table of her

contents. I rarely gloss over her glossary -

Her dedications are equally essential.

Sometimes, between the hanging end

lines, are her most novel ideas— exhaled

meaning from her quixotic prose. Give me

the rarest edition, wrinkled ear

bent pages. Give me the anti-heroine

protagonist -No damsels or princesses

with crowns that never age.

I want to find her middle spot,

and dive inside, to unravel her

erotic subplots. Give me

the deepest climax and I will return,

over and over to her, my favorite

chapter. Tickling I love my tomes

heavy—I’m a hardback lover;

opening-up her pages like arms

embracing. I long to open her,

licking the edges and bookmarking

her skin by showing how much

I love her sweetest preface.

Living Next to Henry Miller

My Pops called him so vulgar

cursing our neighbor, saying

I don’t like his type. All we

ever heard were the strangest

noises coming from his bungalow

sounding like Henry was more

than making but stimulating

loud earthshaking love with his

typewriter; I always imagined

Miller’s fingers finding her softest

body on the page, pressing down

on the keys, each sentence had teeth.

Peeking inside of his window noticing

he was more than a book lover,

how Miller loved the glow

of the right spine in sunlight.

I miss hearing the music of Henry’s

typewriter reawakening Miller’s

most excited passages, making

his exclamation point, pressing

down softly with his index finger,

she even loved talking back,

craving the way, he pressed

down waiting for the ringing…

I could tell by the desire coming

from his hands, the way she would

answer at the end of each sentence,

more than in love with this writer—

Henry, definitely—was her right type.

She Is My Type

Every key resounds each letter

while engraving on my page

so loud, her expressions no

longer blank; no backspace,

no delete, when I press each

of her softest buttons, it returns

me to my favorite place, the body

line where I create. Loving

the ring, the zing of each key

even when I press down

it’s as if she’s evoking me

deeper, takes me back

to the time where scents

of perfumed white out’s

widely ruled and when

sitting in chairs for hours

patiently, staring at her

metallic i’s, our foreplay,

for each ink stained chime

feeding another paper kiss,

pressing down erotically,

ageless power, so electric

sans the chord, when

my finger touches her,

loving each feel as I hear

her metallic nails mark

with black ink; I follow her,

arrow keys, on this machine,

hearing the ding of her everything—

her tough exterior, softly she

hides her ribbon stains;

she owns my hands,

loving to please as I type,

holding the keys to her

most Royal space,

glowing from each tab

I perfectly place; she answers

me, between the sheet,

the harder I press down,

she responds —I fall.

Sandra Cisneros

I don’t see a Mango Street house,

nor sounds of a silhouetted loose

woman splashing fire on howling

creek. I feel your pelo strands

long negro y caramello and all

the malo boys that tried to comb

you. I would never want to shame

your wicked, wicked days as I drop

el cepillo, pick up mi pluma—listen

as I flicker a match between these

stanzas hear me reigniting your llana,

honoring the volume of voices that call,

not tempting but consuming me when I

connect with your unrelenting corazon,

as I fountain lines you once enraged,

sparks within me the wildest gift—

your invisible regalo reflecting beyond

your cuerpo skin, libros tan finas

whispering to me glowing wrinkled

chapters, from your spine, my sirena

sage, I picture you ruling the ink

upon the brightest stage, let me

spark your closest wink, please

read and devour me, the last lines

I blush from my climatic page.

Carrying an Eighteen-Wheeler Refrain

“… here I hold your dream in my poem.”

Rae Armantrout

As he stands with fedora shadows,

we dream, listening wide awake,

gripping our souls with voces

hermosas resounding from

his microphone we are all

encantando as this poet lights

up echoing rhymes, repetition

ritmo, oscuro, tierra—breathless

our ojos y oídos following

as his words suave like jazz

musica his grinning keys

leaving us trembling with sparks

of enlightenment, under these luces,

he ignites our beautiful voices

simmering with anticipation

hanging on all his palabras, teaching

us how to make the salsa, savoring all

our idiomas y colores, he shares

the juice of his papaya poemas,

the fruits of his lengua

Mexicana. He speaks gigante,

fluidly carrying an eighteen-wheeler

refrain, from the stage. Even though

he’s a different shade, I can feel

el poeta, he speaks like me, soñando

in metaphors, he even sounds like me,

with his hands in motion, swimming

in imaginación—his voz sounds

hermoso, echoing stanzas, poderosos

with his cuatro ojos, glasses radiating

fuerza from his fedora shadow, we feel

him beaming, he leaves us singing

our vida; believing palabras, echoing

our beautiful voices—he loves

glowing la poesía.

For Juan Felipe Herrera

Mas Poesias, Por Favor

The walls were speaking

writing verses for me

in different lenguas, labios

on concrete, making

sounds like the softest

nails spray painting

graffiti, fingers against

cement, calling of flavors

sensations of colores

like the lips from a lover

of poemas, licking wet

transfixed, my camera lost

within her tempting

translations, making

out verses using only

the exotic besos of her

gifted tongue.

Thank You Rochelle Newman Carrasco

When Tilting Her Head

I have loved many women. And as they've held me close... But the only one I've never forgotten is the one who never asked.”

Renato Amoroso

I forget all that my Mama said

as we park, she takes me— breathless;

I don’t want to breathe when she

takes our lead and miss a single

irreplaceable taste, electricity down

this spine, every snog like licking

books when I turn pages, this reclining

leather feels her, moves us backseat

with every suction breath she syncs us

closer, I can tell she is well read.

I feel her rewrite my favorite chapter,

I long to be her well-thumbed tome,

I want to feel her face underneath

my front cover, when tilting her

head, I wish she would open her mouth,

spread her lips wider and with every

poetic moan, just swallow me.

Thank You Sarah Frances Moran

She Entitles Benicio

She used to love the punk

poet, Henry muscle shirt torn

wearing tight, keeps his

heart sleeveless, hair gray

reignited poems flexing

words, his only prize. Now

she wants the silent one, who

mouths so many languages

to compose her, she loves this one—

who speaks only with his eyes.

The one on the screen, when

he blinks, he ignites a glow

so firelight, she sinks in her

seat, as the poet skulk’s

loneliness his only shadow,

microphone echoes to spotlight

Rollins solitary rhymes as she daydreams

of writing new endings, with del Toro

as her starting role; unlike the

poet, she craves his spoken word

to remind, he’d breathe her

lines accented deep, inside her

ears Benicio will ring caliente

so sweet, creating volumes action

rising and denouement leaving

his mark entwined between end

lines— they rhyme complete.

For Kirsten Larson

Hotel Roomiv

And I miss the taste

of spooning ice cream

that melts, I still can feel your

taste inside my mouth.

I hear exhausts cars that pass

our room on the highway,

wanting you to exit on my

cul-de-sac, your entrance

is an engine that motors

loudly when you smell

my tightest of leathers,

loving to inhale— the wanting

you to unzip while licking

the gold glitter off

from my most private freckles—

as the TV snows, I sweat

in your favorite places—

hunched over pages open
to the part where bookmarked
so eloquently. Wishing you
would turn the doorknob,
rip off the silk tie, the anniversary
gift, you love bonding my hands
with, to explore me, as your lips
reach for my hungering
thighs, dangling taste buds
you hold the key. Blinking
more fantasies, waiting
on bedsheets, ready and
dripping on sheets you
unmade with me.

This One Button Controls Her HD World v

Electric like her blanket,

she spoons with remote control,

pausing sadness that surrounds her.

With one button only, she can

pause her private world.

Rewinding frames of Thor like

flashback lovers—a Daredevil

story arch can make her blush.

This romance junkie needs a fix

of Jessica Jones as she presses play

to gush leather gifted tears. Next

week will find her closer to

reaching completion. DVR

excitement; her life is on hiatus,

as she reaches for her digital friends,

Defenders, Justice League, Avengers:

the strangers on this HD screen

are always there -- awake to keep her

company while her husband snores

through dynamic Luke Cage scenes,

Iron Fists flashing dreams, to her next

cliffhanger climax. As her excitement

fades too soon, she wishes for a button

longing to control these emotional

parades that pass before her eyes

as she lies there playing back

her favorite lines, clinging to

Captain America comfort.

Superman bends her sadness

like steel in his naked fingers.

Iron Men strengthen her resolve

to reach her destination — Lost

like static silence, waiting

for the studio audience

to shower her with applause—

as the credits roll she returns

to her regular scheduled

show repeating the same untold

reality TV dream—pressing down

on so many buttons, she knows

the ending, she is paused and ready

to be loved, outside this plasma screen.

I Never Know Where I Stand

As another barrage of her
conversational grenades
goes off… with her aim,
it’s either a black eye or
a bite in love within the heart
of our nightly conflicts.
Forget waving white flags—
it’s war when she craves
the spark of our most
unfriendly fire, forcefully
showing all her pointed views,
cacophonous in number
smashing of her passive
aggression symphony,
glass is just like glitter,
isn’t it?
 I can taste

the familiar stinging
refrain of splitting up
again. This time not even
another volatile romp
marching to the beat
of her unrestrained wildness
would make up for her
latest verbal upset
offensive of: you’re
in my veins you fuck.

Now I realize the reality
in her favorite tongue
lashings. And with my one

final bloody lip, sans her
nakedness, in our fox hole
lies the overexcited remnants
of another explosive love
affair, without the dynamite.

Loathing Harley

You despise the way she sits

upon…calling me her baby,

while she polishes every inch

of my skin, I’m always glowing

ecstatic, hard by her touch

magically, she holds my key,

and with her devoted breath

I grow metallic, god—with her

boots, she spurs me on, instead

of heartbeats, she loves to feel

my backfire. I am one, she’s always

daydreaming of turning me on,

when she’s beside you, closed

eyes longing to feed my ignition

and feel her cheeks so close

on leather, all you picture is her

riding me, swerving closer together,

even fully clothed as the wind

kisses us, the heat between her

body and my frame, no helmet

needed, she never refrains—

always returns to me at night

when you’re drifting off, she

loves making my engine rev,

can you hear my roar by her

single gripping touch? Outside,

all over me makes her skin blush,

black leather jacket her body

armor, ready as she loves

to slide her helmet on,

foggy exhales her excited

more than alive with just one

glove touch, always loving her

seat the way she grinds, we are

always vibrating together

my Harley vixen more than

ignited while exploring rides,

even as I wait on the street,

while your asleep, who is her only

target fixation? I am the one—

she reaches for me.

Thank You Bernadette Murphy

No More Tears to Cryvi

No words to confess

as she slumped her face

buried on my chest—

a familiar place I loved

feeling her breath

but at that moment

outside I felt nothing—

no excuses left. She once

saved accusations, setting

off in my presence—

waiting for her insinuation

to cause implosions

she loved untangling

best. The only stars

we saw in flights.

There were no other faces,

no friends, sans family

we never strayed outside

from under our covers

until the blinds showed

our shades, now we’re

standing in black

and white. Sometimes

I think she’ll miss my lips.

Our kisses always reached

for colors that never could exist.

In the morning the front door

was always open, the cold

would chill and awaken us

either she was leaving

or I was looking for exits—

despite each riff cranking

our AM solos before

the coffee simmered,

all crème without her

sugar; even our endless

cravings that stirred us

to rediscover this gift

each night unwrapped

we savored nakedly

and sipped together, remains

a consummation prize for this—

our inconsolable rift.

The Ashtray Said We’ve Been Up All Night

Although we clung

close nakedly

mattress floored

with lips and hips

locked in darkness

as our tongues flickered

reaching towards forever;

waking up, the morning

after, scratching the same

old skipping broken

record, like fading lighters

trying to reignite our midnight

sparks; although I thought

you were my muse,

as our radio returned

to static, how come we

could never find the starlight?

The Poets of Love

Stopped under the street lights,

looking up at his Orson

Welles like presence, she

glows like his Rita Hayworth

ink pink, starring in each other’s

poems, as yet unwritten stanzas,

facing inspiration, simmering

half full, drinking midnights

together they can still feel

the jukebox ears ringing

from the pub’s last call; riffs

signaling they’re falling, dedication

shots toasted by lovers clinking

glasses, drinking up this spotlight

moment, thinking this where

she parked their car while

standing on concrete, their eyes

capture the elation of blinking

galaxies, together, somewhere

in San Francisco while

The Poets of Love glare into

their eyes— they glimpse

each other’s stars.

For Allie and Brennan

Tears Don’t Run Down Your Cheeks In Space

Still adjusting to the floating in zero g.

I just flipped a plastic bag of NASA corn

upside down, dumping out kernels,

watching every niblet soar flavorless—

atoms floating into the Cosmos;

just wish Neil Degrasse Tyson was behind

me to narrate my hungering hilarity. Time

is always hanging above, keeping me

awake. These lonely stars are faceless

angels, shining and eternally so moving

that even the paparazzi could never erase

the way cielo clouds and red desert meet

the ocean, naked bodies melting together

as milky chocolate cravings burns

into my famished mind.

Among the beautiful galaxy canvas

I still feel tiny and shallowly misplaced.

No matter how hard I pray,

My helmet hair dandruff clings

to this wrinkling face. Guess it’s

true what tired eyes say…

no one can hear you dream within this

sleepless spinning. outside my window,

the universe screams silence. Why am I

always hearing rockets red glaring

inside my personal space?

for Reid Wiseman

Fear of Driving

Why is it when grabbing

the wheel, I immediately hear

siren sounds, attack panicking

my breath, I don’t want to write

gun poetry and suffer another side

of the road interrogation because

of my caramello skin tone, like on

the night of my high school graduation—

stopped by SAPD, informing me,

my complexion matching the gang

description of some banger who just

robbed a house. I don’t want to write

anymore gun poetry and raise my arms up

in the air praying to the lord up in the

overcast Southern Texas skies as I hear

my rights disappear with flashes of having

orange draped all over my hunching

back not wanting to sport the latest

style of new county jail jumpsuits

dreading confining me in solitary

and imagining headlines of my untimely

demise appear before my stuttering site—

all this appears in my head before starting

my car, I rub my Kokopelli Totem

Necklace that my poetic mentor

Alma Luz suggested I hang over

my rearview for suerte more than

buena, as I signal to turn into the freeway

that at times is not meant for me, mis

hermanos and members of my estranged

poetic family—retelling my reflection

I have no fear of driving—I just don’t

want to write gun poetry sparked

by an officer showing off his own piece

and instructing me to lie on the hellacious

highway concrete, face down like a perro

in heat, just so he can check my California

ID, weapon pointing at my sweating

hands held up, while I compose my last

rights… to be silent verses as cars pass me

and my soon to be chalk outlining

my invisible skin as it barbeques, sun-

burning with humiliation on this expressway

interchange. I see myself seething like an

arrestee face down on I-10, not wanting

to let go of my pen fountaining, as

perspiration drops sweltering tears,

without any movements, suddenly

checking both ways…flashing forward

in my front seat, I defiantly compose gun

poetry; slowly signaling—I restart

my engine…so cautiously.

I Want to Feel the Choke in My Throat

Flags draped bleeding reds, right through

the whites of our blindfolded eyes,

like a cold that never wants to leave you;

grieving tears now censored blues,

color bar taps and keeps playing through,

detaching away from microphone

and evening news. The edited horns

from the airplane hangar leave us

wanting more; waiting for our invisible

hearts, all medaled in purple, our families,

our soldiers, now strangers finally

arrive to this place they called home.

Always, too quiet. buried deep from the top

storied newswire. Too explosive?

Why witness our casualties

from this desert storm? More

than sand in our cries, no need

to check the stats in the sports

section— we keep losing this score.

Too many lined up, faceless divisions,

fallen blacked out without national

attention, so much more violent,

with our forces armed, the end seemed

even closer than when we actually

disappeared; mirrors keep cracking cold

from the last words each private swore,

just like an addictive smoker keeps asking

with friendly fires, what were we relighting

for? All of this stillness through marches like

matches fading from the distance, still, no

one will witness, never easy watching

the breeze disguising this now disgusted

draft, once was so much louder, under

our muzzled buried caskets; must

this frozen outside feeling,

standing for all their honor—

fighting our silent coffin war.

Nature’s Fireworksvii

No rockets red glaring

just skies exploding

silence through natural

colors bursting through

dusk clouds, loving

to stare; as night approaches

taking mental snapshots,

I just focus on the glowing

above me, even before

the stars appear I feel

my senses flare.

There’s Nothing Like Gazing into A Campfire

Watching logs ignite, flaring to

listen for the charred rhymes

in between the flames

the fire pits epic poetry,

the wood refrains, hear

them yearn; as the smoke

rises skyward who needs a lightbulb,

your mind crackles introspection

ideas glowing in the nocturne.

There’s nothing like watching

the most personal motion picture,

toasting without words. Your eyes

mesmerized as the sparks become

the most sizzling revelations—

there are no explosions, under stars;

yet there are poems sizzling quietly,

you can hear them stir, in between

the hypnotic interludes, where

nothing ever happens—

and everything always burns.

Cell Phone Dying Near Point Mugu

We inhale barbequed laughter

as your off key high maintenance

husband croons, “I lied about being

the Outdoor type.” Campfire

choruses continue soaring into

the lifted Sycamore sunset;

through gusting branches, I fear

turbulent waves crashing, her salt

flavors tidal, calling me closer, haunting

me with unnatural claustrophobic

whispers keep flickering stories channeling

Discovery channel savagery of wildlife,

mountain lions, bears, tigers and not

because this baseball fan hails from

Detroit. Sweating to the all too quiet

and smoky stillness lurking around.

My sleeping bag footprints

simmer, ready with flash

smartphone light, gripping

car keys in hand, hearing too

many crickets mocking me

between the crackling wood

fire burning, wishing

for my wife to drive me back

to my static air conditioned, satellite

NFL Sunday ticket man cave

with voiced remote control; no

buttons here under the stars

to mute this sarcastic darkness

as I foolishly wait for one bar left

iPod to select my favorite White

Album Ringo “Good Night”

song. I shuffle some more trying

to find some bundled warmth

under this choking sleeping bag

as the cackling coals

of our serendipitous campfire

awakes me, again. Somewhere

this hunger lunges closer, smelling

marshmallow melt has me yearning

for s’mores as my tent dreams

linger. My impatient ghosts hover,

waiting for our exit to the 101

follow me back to my city

skyline direction, but not

tonight. I look up and finally

feel the stars, glowing

like a Pink Floyd light show,

earbuds soundtrack this holiest

of visions, finally, I exhale

taking in the sudden sleepy

calmness of my favorite

private moon. As Waters

croons “Time,” I mouth

back unselfishly I can finally

feel new harmony— sounds like

nature brightly singing

in unison with me.

A Murmuration of Starlings

Can you feel the buzzing

in the canvas sky? Sounds like

an etch-a-sketch of nature, see them

soar creating so many shapes,

exploring massive wing like dances

in the air— stirring my sight as I catch

the darkest figures silhouetting

perfectly in daylight— glorious this

sight an exaltation of larks, exhilarating

sparks I feel my eye spinning

my mind as I experience watching

their shadows soaring skyward like

a musical ballet flying auspiciously

or perhaps these awe-species storm

through clouds swarming together so

calmly in light, while silently snapping

their revolving images

recapturing these murmuration of starlings

starring above me. awestruck

with their flight.

Let Me Rise Up Like a Paper Cloud

You see, some things I can teach you. Some you learn from books. But there are things that, well, you have to see and feel.”

Khaled Hosseini

I appear—

igniting fire

feel my flying, try not

to let the sickness

of altitude pull me back,

so much for waiting, watch

me flowing with this gust,

wanting to transcend into wings,

knowing I will not rise

instead become enflamed

as colors keep burning my skin,

so fragile and light—I want

to tear myself from this

place without spines

binding me, floating loose

leaf picture a once skying kite

descend; blazing faster

as the wind engulfs with

no land insight, watch

me soar flapping into brazen

skylight, as I turbulently glide

witnessing the spontaneously

combustible wonder

of my paper skin. Hearing

my pieces tear off as I embrace

friction dissolving me, feeling

Icarus more than closer—

I am his sun.

Raining Umbrellas

Things have dropped from me. I have outlived […] lost friends…others through sheer inability to cross the street

Virginia Woolf

Strolling in the French

Quarter sun on cement,

I see remnants of floods

flashing, branches filled

with Mardi Gras beads

falling as the storm

left so many umbrellas

on the sidewalk—

every step I take, I see

another forgotten soul

torn— left stranded

still dripping wet, some

unopened and waiting

to be salvaged, and

resurrected as someone’s

cool cane or even a make

believe light saber in the grip

of a child, these castoffs

welcome any shade—

but as I walk I see so

many tossed off, I can

hear them seething

discarded overcast days

sweltering heat, broken

handling hard, just wait

till you need one, without

protection, who will save you

from all the thunder? Lightening

shimmering umbrellas holding

all their grudges as you’re splashing

to find some Bourbon Street

balcony cover to avoid these

Louisiana summer storms, you

will be soaking with regret.

Her Only Light in Vegas

I love you, with a touch of tragedy and quite madly.”

Simone de Beauvoir

Her lipstick-stained

Virginia Slim hangs—

ash seething but no match

as her smoky determination

exhales, still thrives even

while sliding in her last

crinkled dollar. No longer

at the tables, she folded

all her face cards of lovers,

now her only desire, planting

her soaked backside

on these wonky Stardust leather

slot chairs; thirsty eyes watch

her blurry hearts spinning,

while pulling the rusted sweaty

lever, even she is waiting

for her lucky 7 & 7 to arrive.

Tasting Her $100 Margarita

Unwholesome thirst/ Stain my veins”

Arthur Rimbaud

Simmering deliciously,

in the tallest glass, I can

feel this see-through beauty

calling my name. Her salty

teases sprinkled around

the rim, her limon lengua

aftertaste has me shimmering

excited with every sip of her

delicious Red O body, my tongue

does swim. After downing

half of her, craving more

than a sip, her two see

through tequila shots leaves

me thirsting to finish her,

I hear her teasing, “salt me

tempting as she giggles

between each drink, “explore

me with each drop;” she knows

I can’t resist her succulent

triple sec seduction, I know

she longs for another round—

to take me further and see me

falling for her intoxicating

flavor, more than just another

margarita this glistening beauty

always floors me, she must hear

how I adore savoring her most

stirring sounds. I know, we were

on the rocks, when I first graced

her icy beginnings; now I am

bound to keep melting further,

drunk with my taste for her

saltiness, there’s nothing left

but her sweetest spirits,

glaring back at me, half-empty,

although she has vanished

from inside this glass—

more than thirsty, why

do I feel like I am the one

to have fully drowned?

She Pours Me with Her Eyes

Bottle aged, corked to

imperfection. The scent of her

filthy neck, tempting me; I crave

her…so, eager to take—

hold her by tracing

every inch of her wrinkled

curvaceousness; longing to sip,

lovingly and enshrine all

her sagging labels, as her

flirtatious thoughts

leave me unpeeled. I know

before even the first drop,

I will succumb; so thirsty

for her skin excess, I keep

reaching tongues, deepening

my taste; could I ever stop?

With every single pouring drip,

I undress her grins. She is more

than another bottle; I swallow

and feast on my own senses.

Her glasses clink… a very

good year. I long to savor all

of her, desire more body, flavored

aroma, I want to feel her glassy

round presence, my favorite shape

this aura so fine, her peaks I love to

handle; As I awaken her

uncorked experience, she repays

me by drinking me whole. I love

splashing our every last moment;

she becomes my liquor savoir,

her vintage aftertaste consumes

me… I need another drop of her

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