Saturday, January 28, 2017

On Depth and Salty Expectations

What is it about the coast and expectations?
Is it positive ions or the taste of salt rimming

every breath? Maybe it’s in the way waves roll
before crashing into hard soaked sand like tender

first kisses that become a hundred hungry intimacies
gasping for air and grasping for lips and the twist

of tongues before shifting their attentions to learning
where we hide our secrets and where imaginations turn

every new discovery into something blue and rhythmic
and very, very deep.


First appeared in Vayavya

Saturday, January 21, 2017

An Always Open Case

I showered once with her guitar
and learned all about progressions.

The acoustics were on my side
and the natural reverb married

with the unnatural rain redding
my back in a super hot steam

of hard wet wenge and mahogany.
I wanted to sing along but strummed

and hummed instead. Though she never said,
I think she knew, and I think that’s why

she took it away, why she kept its old
black case always open and empty.

Still, I never could confess to finding
those curves perfectly wide, perfectly narrow.


First appeared in IthacaLit

Saturday, January 14, 2017

Warning

This poem contains skin,
lots and lots of skin. The skin
this poem contains is soft; it’s tan
everywhere except there and there
and a little bit there. Please be aware
that this poem also has hands – handsy
hands that know the difference between
the need to caress and a caress that kneads.
The hands this poem contains come complete
with fingers for touching and tracing the skin –
about which you’ve already been warned. Know,
though, that these fingers are not only for touching
and tracing the aforementioned skin. No, these fingers
also explore gently, eagerly, the deep inside of a lover’s
imagination, a lover within whose breasts breathe wanton
breaths between kisses long and wet as the arousal of a lover
whose skin loves skin.


First appeared in Vayavya

Mommy Mode

I nibble and tease,
search for the switch that flips her
from the kids’ to mine.

Maybe backgammon
the way she likes to play it – 
no one tries to win.

I could do dishes
while she lingers in the tub – 
candles, steam, whiskey.

How about hearing,
eye contact and some nodding,
asking for details.

There’s always hugging
just for the holding her close –
just for the holding her close.


First appeared in Eunoia Review

Saturday, January 7, 2017

Jaded

Her eyes have that one color green you hate
calling green. Emerald is better but just too too.
No, they’re green and cynical and deep

as the way the air in a forest’s morning mist
infiltrates your imagination and turns everything

into the lush fantasy of a primal, hungry, and never-
again-alone lust. They’re so green they make you doubt
the existence of memory, the memory of isolation,

and the solitude inside a natural passion that sweats
between heartbeats before leaving marks

where no one can see, so no one can bear witness
to the way they carry on without ever looking back
Thing is, I don’t think they started out that way.


First appeared in Literary Orphans - November 2016