To Me

She walks up on me in blue shroud jazzness.
I thought her buoy, but she hit me like an island.
She makes me crazy. Her mask of innocence drives me happy.

She talks to me in the indigo highlights of her blackness.
Hers is a neck to snuggle. Hers is a tummy
on which to praise to heaven the potency of coffee.

She takes me down forest paths to shadowed mountains.
She leads me to the glitz of her Coney Island.
She's clothed in nudity. I'm ape in tie and suit.

She walks to me, she talks to me.
She looks through my haze of Wall Street shenanigans.
Is this not 131st Street and Lenox Avenue?

Home

Geese on the lawn and stormy weather evenings,
this is home across the western continent
and the tossed Atlantic.

Fate numbers the days of people
as it does the demise of stars.

Home harbors the heart,
and though we wander, given the chance,
heart returns to the starting point.

Mr. Neanderthal knew it.
I know it too.

Very Me

Over the green rattan love seat,
the portrait of a tiger
whose eyes follow me
wherever I roam in the living room.

The green titled floor,
the green carpeted steps to my bedroom,
the dark nooks, the yellow sunsets,
the one candle dinners,

this is my place of sanctity,
the tiger portrait to remind me of my Taiga origins,
except back home they were Siberians, not Bengals.
That's okay, the albino makes that concession.

An Exchange of Saliva

The beautiful night is a sumptuous garden,
the flowers, planets; the bees, comets;
shimmering darkness covers
under which I hold fast to trellis,

to iron bedposts in trepidation
awaiting your pending entrance
with unsheathed thorn
my blossom fragrances,

you waxing, me imploring,
each accepting the eventuality
there will be reckoning,
but no restraining.

Gaddafi to Benghazi

Totally wired, high tech committed, user friendly programmable,
you can do anything you want with these young, Face Page people
except appeal to their sense of old fashion loyalty.

Ancient Poets in The Bleachers

She decided to work him over as she had from the beginning.
Maybe this time he'd throw his hands in the air and scream,
" I've had sufficient, I'm out of here!"

Her goal was that --- to get him to leave,
that she might marry a man of proper fit,
who could satisfy her every whim.

She was sensual, she was ambitious.
He was a lazy lout who only willed to poetize.
Friend, should you too be sonnet bent, don't contract marriage.

Study human nature, instead.
For amusement, write limericks or visit the Coliseum
to watch the pitching of Christians to the lions.

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