The Buddha Stole
...for M.

I wear you around my neck
like a soft woolen scarf,
and hidden in the folds are
joys of all descriptions.

As the day presses
I tilt my head to refresh myself,
to strengthen my form
with your might.

As your power glistens
on my lips,
I swell to enormous heights,
confident and fearless and yours.

The Eternal Gig

He carries his
ax loosely
under his arm,
with the other
tucked tightly
around her waist.

She's speaking
as they walk
gesturing wildly
with her hands.
He's listening,
nodding, smiling,
nuzzling her hair.

They resound
these two do,
the muse and the dance.

She writes poetry.
He plays tenor sax.
They're young and full
and hungry in a
wonderful rambunctious way.

An Afternoon Latte

A striking, dark haired women
whose lineless face mirrors
the face of the young girl sitting
next to her on the 1950's replica Starbucks booth.

The girl, smiling softly while spooning
chocolate mocco ice cream into her red
lipped mouth, listens intently as her mother speaks.

They are so timeless,
so beautiful, so lovely, so desirable...

Moving her hands in time
with her words, long delicate
piano fingers dancing over the keys,
the woman caresses the point she is making.

The young girl suddenly looks
at me over her spoon, catches me
with my mouth open, and makes me blush.

She looks back at her mother and
what passes between them spills over
to my table and their parting glance stamps
Starbucks in my psyche as vivid as an intaglio print.

How Could I Know?

We spent all those years pleading
with each other to understand.
Hoping the other would see the light.

Smiling like politicians,
we worked the crowd,
gathering alliances,
choosing sides,
pimping for understanding
and in the end we found
we did understand,
blatant and subtle as it was.

There was love there,
but lust was the glue.
The falling down fighting
and fucking appealed to us.

I didn't know that then.
I thought I hated it.
But you knew, didn't you?
You were always that much quicker.

Out of Control

I watch the space above your head
as you move your mouth
with astonishing speed.

Spittle sprays into the sunlight,
carrying germs of truth and paranoia
and the sad lamentations
of your out of control life.

Pointing the finger at me
only prolongs your commitment
to shifting the blame.

I can't help you;
I'm having enough trouble
keeping my own socks pulled up

Ménage à Trois
(A horticultural reproduction of Bernini's 'Ecstasy of Saint Teresa')

Flowers shimmering, perspiring,
musk strong and heady,
scents of red and yellow and orange.

I love you yellow, most of all
turning your face to the sun,
offering your exquisite being
to strangers on gossamer wings.

How beautiful you look
where for days on end
you will be ravished,
the essence of you
gathered and spread.

How apropos it seems
for you to give so unselfishly
to so many unknowns

ménage à trois
ou quatre ou cinq.

I'm tired of being her toe rag...

Just because I'm constantly
in a sexual snit, slobbering
shamelessly whenever she's near.

Just because I'll do almost
anything to lay naked against
her flaming body;

and just because I'm a glutton for her ass,
and obsessed with her sex,
and thrilled by her tongue,

and just because each time I
sense the crooked finger
I fall to my knees and crawl
on my belly to her side,
braying pitifully,
drugged by her music.

This does not mean I'm not in control of my
senses, it's simply that,

...I'm mired in being her toe rag.

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