I can tell you that darkness is not overrated.
Neither with its shadows, not its sullen protection.
The dastardly deflection of deflected glows can't grow.
It's maize halos afraid of such hated acquaintance.
You--in Kinectic patterns of light freckled dance.
Enhancing lace fanfare--the opposite of cellars.
To hold at the panoramic fold of your shoulder.
Guarding chastity like a snow furried wolverine, down
through nectar mountains--the gulf of your stomach,
sweet headache briar woods--untouched southern comfort.
Infecting every man and lad susceptible to beams
with your beautiful disease.
Lay me in the middle of an Alien street.
Hit me with a light so strong it washes me.
Bleach the black away with the tender white knives
shining from your eyes like pure beams oif cream.
Dream me to the core of your florescent plaid schemes.
Let me be the wheels and pulleys of your muscles. The
copius blood rushing through your blushing structure
Not harsh or controlling, just soft and cajolling:
Ms. do you mind, if you would, could you please
I can tell you that tincture is not always tattered.
That it matters when we crack each tile of light.
If I could put the night in a washing machine,
Instead of always wearing it--so wet, tight and dirty
that I blend to silver photos of some old motel Autumns.
Askew on the wall of some whiskey shy dance hall
where you pass laughing innocently
without even seeing me.
vol.1 no.3 Fall 1999