Healing hands and a knead to palms

Again down the straight dark street familiar,
holiday periphery red, white, and greenish
mere distractions, if that, so breathless bored
until a left turn where a perfect waxed car sat

once was a double lot there smooth and grassy
a little coupe slept in two-tone taupe and brown,
gave rise to a fantasy of cool. Wanna date, baby?
My tranny is push-button, Plymouth automatic too.

Three houses now where that grass once grew,
three more blocks along cookie cut white capes
and a right turn into memories: a youthful flu outta
cigarettes causes a feverish walk to Jack's deli for
some cool mentholatum smoked waist out window,
grey ashes on pitted aluminium frames an only clue.

Slow the drive and smoking menthol still to pull into
a patterned macadam drive past it's black prime,
some lonely cracks on blocks where a wind blown
screen blew Suzanne right off the porch untrellised;

now a cherry Camry driven was a wish once
in heavy purple purple flannel, tomorrow we
shall move you to a bed where the snow can
be seen, gone drifting in a dream grown white.

I would love

I would love to sit with glasses of wine and you
if for no other reason than to study your face,
no other reason than to drink your idle patter
into lips languid lips while you go on amusing.

Say what you will, I'm in a you adoring mood-
each little stridency, each charming blush, excitedly
brought forth by the ruby rush of warming Malbec
only serving to hasten my silly dreams still within.

I will listen to your words of course all in course,
all but totally slayed, your face flush with beauty.

If a prolonged hesitation between sound and sense appears

so must it be as a lamb's sweet foot is offered buttered
and a memory riced rheumy is soul taste toasted cumin-
within that taste a wide taught waste crosses shuttered
with puffy-eyed dazes down under daisies tautly shoed in.

When frail male hearts fail it prevails non-denominationally
and larded hard. Oompah, a blackened band puffs to grieve,
while a glance at belt bulge widths wilts to discretely deceive
a secret wanton scream over the tone-deaf wait, intentionally.

See what I mean? Say yes to me liar, I am no blue sooth
and neither and both are true at the solemn end of words:
a triangular pumpkin filled fritter dropped tray to booth
strays beyond salvation. Back to a kitchen, kitsch absurd

in days of dancing. Asked too soon to dray the grey pall,
why eulogize this long? Why wait? Reply. Folks, that's all.

If you have to ask

If you have to ask, ask. The answers are already no
answers hidden alone in a musky pose velvet green,
but that was a go where was a close shave unknown
and a muddy spot on boots was normal not obscene.

Shave you say? Yes, I like that well enough where
lips exposed can be wet and moist and red enough
for play. Guess there may be a graying question there
but I forgot to ask if no was rough and yes was tough,

forgot to reconsider whether the simmer of the mole
would last forever or just one afternoon on low burn,
whether chocolate and cinnamon was a prelude play
or if the sun's low arc might birth, seasonably, a turn

to speaking to myself in tongues that only I can hear:
asking again, double dumbly, in grin that you are near

La Morte de ISON

You can't count on a clump of ice and rocks
when the sun gets involved.

The sun removes all tears by heat or worse
so crying is worthless but go ahead and do.

Motherfucker burns and is pitiless too,
being just a self-consuming furnace,
it's all it do. And it melts chumps too.

Clumps unaware will transit
in frozen glee and whump:

Wake up! Time to die!

If you need compassion as a comet
don't trust Apollo, he's kind of a dick
say the whispers cowered in shadow.

Vapor in vacuum makes less
sound than an orbit gone bad.

Searching for Quiddity

The cheese on the plate no longer has a sheep attached
but a paddy so lush and warm lingers in the ricey cracker
so sheep and rice in a single breath are quaintly matched
on a coddled Sunday colded for a couch-bound slacker.

Is the bite into the curdled sheep's milk really real or just
a fat filled joy that brings back memories of soaked fields
where little lambies suckled at a perfectly muttoned bust
laid down with cloven fours outstretched to slowly yield

the golden dream of sampans in an iridescent harbor now?
The combining of East and West begins to mouthly meet,
the brain harvests riddles that are woven finger-traps, how
is a thing that was a puzzled thing not so ontologically neat?

The silly why, the endless search for a perfect pull of quiddity
dissipates into rice and milk and an imperfectly tasted lucidity.

What looks like easy prey defends

A fuzzy place on the old rump brocade
has its place in autumn bliss, couched
when the low arc of the orb now white
gave away to slow breaths in and out.

Ears pulled back, eyes slack grey and
white on a perch of stained red birch
never meant for wings but wings now
lifted by regular breaths seem birdlike.

The bliss place is you and me and him
in the desert or in the now of silence

and we do not know its name.