Red Sheets

On the road to Neptune,
Angels have led me
within myself to you.

We danced all night.
Marley was there
Reggae jump the hip
hump as your legs
crossed my fingers
and vulva my eyes.

We ride swart horses
and you my sweet slut,
my harlequin mate race
time in the relative space
of when our swoon drips
down my thumb to yours.

Tonight, in the garden
we plant new orchids,
our ragged face drugged
to the edge of red silk
screams. We come
our bodies fall until
we are still. No voice
reaches where the dance
began in sweat of the opera
I heard waves in the overture
bang silence as you lift veils.

I woke with my fingers
in your mouth. Red Sheets
disheveled, -- your breasts warm.

Angels have led me
within myself to you
where we twitter
red birds -- lovers in
an improvised dance.

Gingerbread House

Gingerbread House


I sucked up sugar cookies
and you whipped my fruit, we
took two breaths, licked milk
from white mustache,
changed sides and did
it twice, no three times before
Santa stole passwords.



You said my teeth
were clean and I replied
your inner lips were full,
pink and wet like saltlick.
I bit your shoulders and
cum raged waterfalls
stood hard in dark moonlight.



I fed you frozen yogurt.
We built a gingerbread house
with green windows, red roof.

We made love-sucking candy --
"Merry Christmas and Good night."

Broken World

Christmas makes your year older;
New Year's Day begins the end.

When you ride closer to wall,
feet over edge your jubilant face
carries slight red marks more
than violent natural green
were heaven spits beyond
right or wrong as violet sparks
no one could watch at once
and now poet loves you.

I wish for pleasure
all seasons in life so dirty loved pure.
I watch twelve thousand turtles lift under
you as if their wiggle blends universal laws.
I am yours for illumination raised
with virgin stars; may the world seem safe.

2. Every year, tarnish bleeds makes stains
deeper, and trust, a broken ball with out hinge.
Architects draw wagons on the sky lift their
sails over the corners of stars as we pray
for deliverance and we caught at escape signal
forward to the last light that untangled dream
that floats as silver pearl with diamond relic.
The museum will be open today.
Dead soldiers gather with their families.

In that stockade, on the front porch, we
climbed over shoulders, bounced, announce
revival and “revanche” while we hoist
white sails cut to center without edge.


Last year, we loved on the side of the road.
You photographed our hands and other parts
said you wanted to keep them forever as icon.

After all, we had measured life’s conquests;
but standards of glory not kept dissolved in brine
with new strains of some great rush of bacteria.
No one on duty; we ran gauntlets with an approximate
illusion. We did so much on the chance we were right.
Why did we fasten so many zeroes to humanity?
How does the virus called mankind live so well?

"May the world seem safe" we speak louder
now as terror smacks bricks, glass and spindled
first drafts into waste left behind long after events?
What we say records history and all the trillion yards
of paper and digital; they will not flutter as ticker-tape.

Shall we make the Broken World one slight
ornament on a new Christmas tree?
When the tree is put away who will watch
the New Year "rocket's red glare" as the 4th of July
becomes "shock and awe" or other obsenities.

How do we mark down progress
without opening graves? How can we forget
these children who loved America?
Merry Christmas.


“revanche” – policy of reclaiming territory

Leonardo Da Vinci

Photograph by Cristie Durand

Leonardo Da Vinci

1452-1519

Leonardo kissed the boys
on his way to the market.
He bought bread and sour milk.
Cheese settled easy in his lips.
He paid them to dance and
never stop while he drew maps
of how not to return home.

It was 1488 and America
was an illusion except for
Icelandic fisherman dragging
nets off the coast of Atlantis.

Leonardo paid the boys
to test his balloon. He said
it came from a star that only
he understood. He said he
had taken passage just as any
infant in the crisp of a squeal

“When I create angels, I borrow
from the Bible of nothing known."