March 2016

	March 2016 Tomorrow's Bone Feeding the Beast Isle of Man To Our Need Al Fresco Lucky Spirit River Walks Allusionist When there is Love I'd Rather be Randy than Waiting on Dead	Tomorrow's Bone I rose the weathered pine stairs behind you - short calico pleats swaying, a beat, a mantra, pale blue satin - your ribald invitation. Sunsets here in April, when the oleander sings, and the scent of jasmine screams, are smears of peach on a blueberry quilt. You turned at your door, quibbling, nibbling arousing our sin, as I walked inside… you prowled, purred, promising me leisure, pleasure, sweet release from tomorrow’s bone.
Feeding the Beast IT is writing again, siting over in the corner draped in a shawl of shadow, suckling on a vessel of vine. IT is pecking at those keys in a stupor of syllable, of run away verbs. IT knows I’m watching. IT is in the zone. I can tell by its eyes, how they hold a feral squint how the fingers move, how IT smirks at me. I have to lock up, trash the bottles, take the garbage and the dog shit to the curb. I have to give IT its pill, lock IT’s doors switch IT’s lights. tuck IT in and say goodnight. I’ll read IT tomorrow. I’ll lecture IT then - again. IT must be fed I know, I know. But the beast is killing me.	Isle of Man Between the silences, this thrice a day relationship purrs like an engine caught in traffic, droning… dripping vital fluids, stop and lurch forward. purrs, guttural cries like a head on a panel show sniping… spittle on the glass. I rise - you leave you arrive the light snaps off. I purr thrumming like a alley cat in heat, feral snarls strangled by the sheets, seething… as the back door slams. I rented a move truck once. It had a governor, a throttled pedal, a yoke on the speed. It never purred… it smirked, refusing to start without enough choke.	To Our Need The ink of you, still not dry as I moved across your planes, their vivid intersections. The words from our lips still bleed. The flame in me still searing as I stoked your ash, the words from our lips filled with seed. The skin of me so hungry for our conversations, savory, au jus, slow delicious drips to our need.
Al Fresco There, on the sun fresh cobbles you looked up as I looked out, tuscan reds and autumn golds glinting from chestnut hair, eyes filled with mischievous blues, and a sweet complexity of jazz. You brought us oven warm bread, tender black plums, sweet strawberries and cheese. We fell to the down again drizzling juice - laughing at the clock, at how immortal we were to baleful designs of the day. That night I took you to the square to a table set cafe. Bulbs strung from the balconies. An accordion played, a viola later. We gazed. We danced, muslin clinging in the late summer heat, our bottomless love in this glass of rose’.	Lucky Ohhh it’s Lucky you came by. It was so cold last night the paintings froze - no one moved. the quilt went crisp, dog spit froze on Milly’s paws. Good you came by. Lucky you came. There’s a black man’s been calling. Says he’s husband to my niece. What an odd thing that. Should I call the Niece Police? A black man. Cedric he calls himself. Lucky you came by. Lucky you came by. There’s a strange girl in my parlor. Some redheaded witch keeps telling me to eat, keeps telling me its 2032 Imagine that horse shit. I voted for that W fella. He’ll take care of this. Lucky you came by. Lucky you came by. I was just about to torch the place. Turn this stalemate of decisions into proper cinder and ash. They have pretty nurses here? Biscuits and gravy on Saturdays? Did you see the Browns win that Super Bowl? I’m so glad you came by. Timmy, let’s get a beer. Where are my keys?	Spirit River Walks We walked the lane, the bridge, the river Trent, the river Lea. We walked the dreams of baby steps, first touches, last lights on the river Thames. We walked the graves where my gene-mates take me, eight generations from Kirks of Glasgow to Norway. We walked Mareham le Fen just as the sun kissed the moors We walked the moment where our hearts burst to lips hungry - swollen - itching to kiss. We walked the siren of maybes, to the songs of the day, and where the Grey Lady walks with the ghosts along the A15.
Allusionist Were I a painter, an artist, I would sketch these scenes so etched behind my eyes. I would coax each pastel oil to capture the teal of these waters, each belly of turquoise, each wink of topaz each smoldering ember deep in your cappuccino eyes. Were I a painter, an illusionist, a wielder of the brush, the ‘allusionist’, you would lie on a bed of Sunsets and Vines, Hollywood and Tuscany in bed with precious dream with the majesty of tinsel, sun, and soil.	When there is Love Held by gossamer whispers as first light kissed our cheeks, each crevice and shadow a dusky rose in the lavender. I watched your down become a forest, your backside valleys and canyons. It’s so different when night falls away and love holds each mote of dust aloft, in light… just a little longer, and in textures - more noticed when there is love. Curves become art… breath is held in the shape of lips, alive in the fall of a breast, the tender high hollow of a thigh. When there is love the room holds poetry, eyes see each linen crevasse, the arroyos deep in the sheets. Fingertips remembering their excursions the terrains, the heady delicious saltine. Held in the arms of dawn, as your breathing changed as your lips - breathy, husky with sleep: “Never ever let me go”	I'd Rather be Randy than Waiting on Dead Someday I’ll be a coot, a codger, something elderly. When does elderly occur exactly? When the first groans emit from posture changes? When one just sighs or shakes their head at the world, at the youth around them? At the music? At the art? I need to know goddamnit! Is there a party? Am I invited? Is some ritual observed? I want to be ready. It’s a milestone after all. A badge of dishonor no? One day I’ll be a dirty old man. How ludicrous really. All men are dirty old men. Yet someday, some barrier, some line will be crossed. It will no longer be allowed to lust, to express, to display desire. I guess women just cover that up. Red hats all around, social makeup - Spanx for the mind. I will insist on going out pinching, groping, flirting. It will just be an age. One day I’ll be a coot, a codger, something elderly, some invisible silver haired soul. Another number in the medical system, a weary sojourner a bag of skin to be sorted out. I think I’d rather be randy than waiting on dead.