#11.2011

I want to pray in a sanctuary where all words are holy

and fill the holes in my chest with your poems 

to make my incomplete carcass whole again.

Hold me--

as your verses venture under my skin 

and make my limbs drip, heavy--

steady.

Already 

my words are thick with thinking of you

my tongue lies tied up

on the bed posts of my mouth

waiting to be fucked by you,

because baby--I was struck by you,

the tones flying off of your tongue

left me bent—black and blue-ming--

  You.

Could open my petals up

to believing in the wind again,

and I’m not Pocahontas 

but honestly, I just want to paint your body with all the colors of the wind

and drink the sun sweet berries of the earth

to quench my never-ending thirst

because...your looks leave my mouth dry.

  And I.

Have dreams of snow-white bed sheets,

raised in rivulets of a sweaty love-feast,

torn to shreds by the earthquake toss of your head—

  Our bed.

Would have mountains and valleys

bordered by the oceans of your

she’s-all-states-and-princes I-rises,

the center of my spheres, my compass,

and after you’ve John Donne me till I can’t see straight,

trace lines down my spine 

bridging our intertwined 

bodies with the length of the golden gate

waiting to cross like a tourist who doesn’t know about calstate—

fastpass me under your eyelids until we fall asleep spooning 

better than the fucking rabbit in the chinese moon crooning,

until the rhythm of your sleep-cycle breathing

brings me all the way back

to Earth.

  But first.

I want you--

shouting speaking stuttering sliding 

your words inside of me,

gliding the fingers of your mouth way down south

until they reach my lips that speak another language

-bilingual-

your fingers give me kisses,

while your lips leave indentations,

prints unique, bound by your double helix, she-licks,

licking me until I scream, reaming me— 

I mean…

what can I say in all human decency?

we’ve got to love fast and hard and

I’m not the Bard but,

we’re all living to die 

and at the very least I

want to love before I go.

So, please...

Poet,

baby,

Make love to me.

In the name of all that is holy.

and Know me

-in the biblical sense-

Because

whole Moses-oceans will part

when you venture between 

my 36-red-sea

breasts

to see if they’re bigger than b’s

but whether you b or I be

that is not the question—

whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer

the slings and arrows

of your outrageous good looks—

It’s my sanity you took.

So while I’m writing words words words,

my red-sea blood lies un-parted and boiling,

double double toil and troubling

bubbling

up up and over

the aorta valves of my 

lonely

virgin

heart.

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