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LIT CAMS (200 Free Tokens)ADULT TOYSVOD MOVIES

007 Challenge

001

I have missed you poets. You are so beautiful. :rose:


01

dragging flayed
ribbon of red and bone
I fall at the door

cheek slides
down grain because
I didn't remember

wood
splinters
daughters of herself

into my open eye
so it cannot close
against the miles

I've walked and days
I've waked
in darkness to get

here
finally
home
 
002

Now there are chocolate straws
to pull milk through flavor
beads because novelty
still sells and whatever it takes
to prop up the dairy
industry, right?

Only a celebrity campaign
can sexy up cow milk
and they don't even try
for goats.

Dissonance blurs
the ads and checkout line
extras as a dark memory lips
around the warm
soft nipple and pulls

the milk meant for us
not cows.
 
003

A hard bed
is better to wake in
despite the first week
bruises because
too much give
softens the bone.

I tell myself
"you are the new Spartan
son but with titties
not too big
to shoot an arrow,"
stretching out the stiff
of sleeping alone,
lips yet pursed
with "no

thank you."
 
004

Even as I think to write
about the way our bodies fit
together neat as blanket
on ticking, sweet as sugar
on toast, even as I type
the first plural I recall the poet

who loudly said she hates
poems women write
about their lovers because
it emasculates them--that
the object of beauty cannot
be a man and remain male. Then
I think of you in my clothes
and me in your clothes
and the tiny bit of red still
left on your toenail and
I giggle, typing, defiantly,
our, we, mine, yours,
this.
 
005

. . . . .Password?
Houndstooth.
. . . . . Is not.
Houndstooth?
............>.>
............<.<
. . . . . No.
............>.>
Mm . . .
. . . . . M-yes?
Mmmmm . . .
. . . . . M-yesssss?
mmmMatrix?

the bullet bore
swift the note
hung on a minus
sign trajectory
carrying fragmented
bone into brain

. . . . . . No.
 
006

Writing as Making Toast

you burnt the toast
modern toaster
modern oven
recipe for bread
has not changed much

toast is different

no longer stick stuck
dangled over the flaming
log

no now we have clean
red burners
carrying the speed
of light no need

to smoke unless
you really miss
the dim fires of your
youth
 
007

Thank You For the Shovel but We're Here for the Season

I know how it looks

cold

white

blank

but in the close up
grays appear and shimmers
of shadow and sun

sheltered in what
will hold heat so long
as it does not smother

believe me
when I say that snow
is no where near
as cold

as the heart
of a crow
 
001

had to suffer “be
the happy sort of sot” berate,
ante-exit seaside
saloon auntie lorded stern

harbor town ships Friday jeans
long before the whistle screams
to call the crew; in silence
all soap up and hope
what they are fed is not liver
without ketchup; without cola
and crushed ice; clean glass
always a plus. Yes, yes, crystal,
well that’s just dreaming.

See, the lord auntie knew
factory types: never did stock
the wines they eschew.
She never read stars.
Did once ride a Burt.
 
004

To be not taken
while catching an eye is a weighty
matter in any hand; hardly
easy; no not light.

A gentleman
has it very hard as the labyrinth
of strings and wires wait
to hang or trip even the balladeer
warbling adept and peacock
bobbing adroit and gawking around
for the nearest posy stand, but maybe
tart or pastry will fix this pesky itch.

Conquest it must be
and oh how delicious
the maiden field odor; grass
blade morass, hidden shudders
but barely, since soils
where the wrestle will thrash,
come to regard the carpet
as dispensable tender
meant for the sleek lance
spear and stab and dagger
hilt is velvet and bone.

Be not dismissive of the silent
recess; envelopment descends as butterfly
flutter. Sheer nylons this love’s hood,
muffler, noose, though if
that be the move, neither side
can really lose whether scabbard
scratches or shift rents, seed will
cake the ripened head that
those gaping details plump.
 
Mmmm, Hmmnmm. I love " . . .bound out of a morning / mist like tigers." Great use of enjambment in these and finely honed form. Strong beginnings.
 
001

honey bee buzzy
wakes in the center
of the winter cluster
welcoming the cold
workers to the queen's
shivering mantle

we are the wealth
of the world she
tells them
keeping them golden
until crocuses poke
up through snow
 
002

I am a Ha'ole
holding all of my
breath in, nose pinched
shut against the exhales
of anyone but you
whose air is sweet
chocolate and chapstick
cinnamon dolce
latte warmed by deep
caramel glances.

I crave your exhale
almost as much
as your kiss.
 
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003

Bflat on a steel drum rings
a particular memory up
surfacing slim atop

five man band jive
light dreaded bass
but otherwise unplugged

stage fringed with studenty
dancers who cannot be
close enough to Ska

rare enough most
places but even more
in Kansas
 
(late) 004

You are not my town anymore
despite documentation that says
otherwise you are not
my town anymore

even though I can close my eyes and see all
of the contours of your suburbs and your peak
in city centre and your hard
grid organization which fries
at the river

You are not my turf, not my town
because others have made you bright
others have made you moan
others have not yet
lied to you
as I have

and as I do yet when
plastic says an address
in New Jersey



italics quote Milton's "In the City"
 
005 (late)

My love texts
you look good
walking away

and I wonder which
is best: my ass
or my absence
 
006 (late)

Bananas Foster still
lives on my tongue despite
the hostile environment
of a poet's mouth

which is less receptacle
than oracle unless
my love is sleeping
and the taste of Bananas
Foster still
lives on my tongue and unless
it is a warm radiator and unless
we are naked (my love is
naked) on the surface
of a very small bed

when I am struck hungry
mallet to the oh! opening
like a bell bottom
for anything his soft enough
or hard enough
to want suckling
 
007 (late)

In the beginning there was
sitting and not sitting
fiction and non fiction
nice teachers and mean
teachers (we didn't yet
know "complacent")

and later we added
lycra's stretch across
breasts, thighs, all parts
sexual because three out of four
relatives agree stuff
(our stuff) needed to be contained

and three out of four relatives
agreed that rock albums for
Christmas meant Donny Osmond
(Thank GOD for mother
who gave Blue Oyster Cult)

1976 hip kids wore jeans and t-shirts but I
wore grandma-made polyester jumpsuits
with patch pockets
until, one day, after a principal-arranged
conference with cool girls

I decided enough polyester was
enough and converted,
gradually,
to the whims of pop culture
pop fashion
pop
pop

did you know you could be a virgin
as many times as you have
money? I do not budget
for this: I was never
a virgin.
 
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One Time

There was a time with too much time
Clocking in at ten years, eleven years-
Staring at the world clock.
Waiting for thirteen of the clock.
The breaking bell with no lunch of the clock.
Thirteen years becomes the exasecond-
Two times the time of the universe
With lucky thirteen’s emotion.

The big time feels like small time,
We are walking the tiny Planck time-
Of the imaginary time of the clock.
 
Two Times

The pain is multiplied by two-
Times the number of wax jobs,
I tried to forget you.

That is four times the manicures-
Times one chance for each week,
I pretended you didn’t exist.

It didn’t work.

That is thirty day dreams-
Divided by twenty four wishes,
Equals seven hundred and twenty

Hours of love for you.
 
Three

Time is measured in sneakers spent running,
And the wear on rubber soles of three eyed leather oxfords-
And three inched heels on concrete walks home.

And flip flops are the quickest
Love affairs, times six and they are worn-
It’s cold on the kitchen floor.
 
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