The Binding

The tangible myth, at last, before my eyes, almost profane to touch the spine.
I pull it towards me, knowing that this only copy, this very copy, has felt the same touch from your fingers.
The worn jacket belies its handling – the scuff on the bottom corner – did you do that? When you turned it against your cufflink, or your nail when you almost lost your grip?
You stood in this very spot; my feet planted in the ghost of your footprints, your wrist brushing against this exact spot on the shelf.
My breath upon each page mixes with yours.
I turn from image to image enthralled by each set of eyes and wonder if they gaze up at me just as they did to you.
What did they tell you? What did you tell them? How much power did they wield over you?
Did you seize upon the vulnerability in their parted lips? If I listen hard enough, will they whisper to me what they saw in your face?
Or will I be betrayed – have you told them I was coming?
Will you see my expression the next time you visit each page?
Are you here? Are you looking right at me without knowing who I am?
We’ve met between these pages separated by no more than a day and a night.
My perfume lingers on the cover.

The Morning Walk To Work

I walk down the street
consumed by the way
without words
you devoured me
slammed me against you
exhaled as your fingers
touched the wet skin
threw back your head
as I tongued
your abdomen
As I wait for the stoplight
to change
I could almost feel
your hands on my head
pushing
to feel my lips
on that eager puppy
jumping against my breasts
Stepping through the revolving door
muscle memory twists
with the way my back arched
shoved and legs askew
roughly grasping my breasts
tongue delicately exploring
my volume and pitch
until I gush
and you lap up
every drop
On the escalator
rising above the crowds
rushing as you yank me
insides twitch
push my head down
pull my ass up
as I scream
as I scream
brain shakes in my skull
this is
this is
a higher place
wobbly legs
when I open the door.

My Baby Do

I wrote this a few weeks back, so while it was relevant at the time, it still presents a beauty in expression that I would be selling short if I refused to publish it.
_______________________________________

When they clamp eyes on my hips
When elbows nudge their dawg
Because they see me cozy up to welcome him,
Because I throw my arms around him and lightly kiss his cheek
How he toys with me, that 'stop being naughty!' gaze
How he stiffens as I graze my ass against him when I turn to walk away
Who can see the veiled desire between us
Who else but my baby, the bachelor of the pack with the 'in'
All attempts spelling marital disaster for the rest
All fearful of my whispers into the ears of wives, but,
They want to know how I taste
They want his recantation - does my dance reflect my sex
Too many times he's heard them insist what an easy piece he'd find in me
Too few people lavished with my attention
When he is among them, the mob fantasy
When he nails me, when he makes me beg
With each message he covertly replies to me - they taunt his skills
With dares to snatch that ass, married or not
What a slam that thing could put on you
What man in their right mind would pass up pussy like that?

He doesn't corrupt good girls, the line he feeds
He won't admit his heart trumps the community cock
While I catch the pain in my baby's eye and the love in my baby's frown
While he protects me. While I long for him.

Trampified

I must give thanks to Library Vixen for her post which helped me coin this term.
This poem is partially inspired by that post, my comment, and her reply. Much love, Vix!
_____________________________________________


She opens the door on this town
From the back alleys
Overloading senses of those stumblers-by
Mesmerized by glossy lips
And laced up torso
Like none you've ever seen
Pretending not to stare
Beware the wind through her hair

Always on
Line ups to get in
Drawing a steady stream from your fingertips
Along your legs, around her hips
Lost in this overload, you implode
Stealing every downcast glance - this town won't see
Behind that washed out screen
Too busy
Too busy for the carnality

Pensive voyeurs bleach bones with joined fever
Soaring as she taps upon the board
her spinneret and spindle
Mile high patent leather
Kiss that pretty little ass
With each bounce in her step
Let her snare you

River of light running through this town
with branching tributaries to hundreds more
Which seeps with infectious hunger
plaguing the putrid loins of the chaste
As her name drips from weary tongues
fearing the powerful false placebo
The concoction in the spell of her pages
for the very sedative to save them
From this terminal affliction

Clickity click, click, clickity click
You forget the dinner on the table
When she walks by
That screen with reality
Pales when she winks
And your children go hungry in dirty clothes
Because her eyes are closed
And her lips part
There is no salvation
Outside her cum-hazy words
Outside your cum hungry fingertips

Beware that woman
For she will trampify you
Between her thighs
Sweet poison
Pumps rigor through the venal backbone
until you are nothing more
Than that viral desire
Trampified
In that trench coat
and one boot with hole in the bottom
Searching for her to click your fix
Or that letter that never comes
Unable to take pleasure
In the birthday cake
Because you can't recall
How this was ever fun
as you check once more
To see if your name
Is still on her eyelashes
The way she batted them
When her hat fell askew
When dust billowed up as she plopped that suitcase down
When you loved outside of that surge
Loading, every, last, bite,
Unload the the mass asphyxiation
To rise, alone reap each spilled drop,
Because those words were written for no one else.
Through her hair
Sweet lips ache for no one else.

When It's Over

The last horn
The final drum
The sun
burning its way thorough the flesh,
And the piercing wail of the Evening Star -
Signals the first dismantling blow.

Surgical hands
Remove recognition
Dusty rubble
the only trace of what pivotal change
Lives clearly in our minds eye -
Proof to none but ourselves.

Taken apart
The collective breath inhales
Bland air
Pallor lacking the juicy heat which marks
Us - once bathed in the milk of frenzy -
Whose sweetness expires with our final breath.

Not Saying Yes

Bare seconds would escape
before I would be on a chick like her,
owning it before the night was over, but I can't treat this one like all the rest.
No longer able to ignore the energy rolling off her every curve, which for so many years
I could blend into the canvas of women to be watched, to be teased, to be had.
Like abandoned chocolate on the table, foresaken
for the myriad of distracting flavours which enable abstenance.
Scatter them as you will, it always stands out in the frey.
Inciting memories heavy with the taste of it
windings its way through your senses.
And each time you take another home, close your eyes and
imagine: her.
But the hip doesn't curve in my palm the way it did when I drew her close for a hug to say hello,
and the moan isn't the throaty sort that once slipped from her lips after a long night.
My eyelids part slightly, enough to catch the curls strewn over the pillow, which are pretty,
but not hers.

She wants me. I see it when she says hello.
She lingers in that first embrace. She smiles and innocently flirts.
She want's to say more after a couple drinks but bites her tongue.
She knows me and still wants to have me, this sweet anomily I refuse to corrupt,
who deserves more than I can give, who believes I want something contrary to her offerings.
If she could only see my thoughts.
To know how many times I've lowered my hands when all I want is to draw her close,
Pretending not to see every coy smile she flashes.
Pulling us apart in those rare moments her lips have found mine.

Why not take her?
Teach her every position she has yet to learn and own her?
Satiate each and every one of our pent up desires?
Why not bring her home for the night so she can have breakfast with us all in the morning?
Make her happy? Make us a family?
This woman who should be my woman.
This love should be more than unspoken.
I should be the man she comes home to every night, but I break her forbidden heart.
I must endure her hatrid. I must ignore her advances.
I hurt her now so she doesn't hurt later.

Reject her.

Turn away before the first tear breaks.

My only love.

Resuming My Novel

Years ago, I had the ear of an agent at a party for five minutes in the midst of a conversation with five people, at the end of which, he told me to send him my first chapter. And so began my arduous love affair with my novels.

He did not suggest we publish. He suggested I write my second book, learn from it through workshops with him, and then go back and rewrite my first book. This was no scam. This is the offer of a well known, sought after agent. he had a group of four to six students at any time. And I was one of them.

With my second book complete, I cannot find him. But today marks the first day of my rewrite of my first novel. It shan't take as long as my first attempt (well, at least that will hold true for the first draft). I wish he would return my attempts at contact, but ah, c'est la vie, n'est pas?

If anyone knows of a good agent (I'm not talking online, I'm talking the physical, tangible goods, something I can hold in my hand), send'em my way!

Wish me luck...