Animal Instinct

Zoos in full of unmannered pup;

lock them in and shut them up.

Scowling bitches throw the key,

as sorrows cry heartbreakingly.

Chains and bars around them gather,

dry tongues each other licking lather.

Stupid boy, gain years with age

‘til then make circles in thy cage.

Piano Physique

Nothing ever changes in a syncopated rhythm.

Patterned notes placed perpendicularly

against the treble clef bar in even increments,

until you arrive.  Running your fingers

down the scales in unpredicted sessions,

separating skin against ivory keys,

fingering each with the tip of your index.

Cold keys jump at echoed eruptions

as the instrument begins to sing out

harmonizing tones of soft symphonies to each ear.

Supple sharps and flats move hands to elevated lengths,

reaching to stroke their smooth black surface.

The condensation of energy in-between

lets your hands slide in a slow somersault

from left to right, reaching soprano heights,

as fast friction flirts against the keys in staccato stippling

until finale emissions end the dance.

Poolside Serenade

Shallow water at the edge of the pool creates a small tide.  She dips her feet, splashing with her toes.  The lean, the shrug of the shoulder demands attention but she looks away.  He glances quickly, not to draw attention, as the sweat gathers at his brow and takes a deep breath in and out, in and out—slowing the beat of his heart.  He lets the imagery run freely in his mind.  The conversational banter, the slick moves once again proving his irresistibility.  He dashes back to reality to see his trophy has moved in close.  Lying on her back in a sun-hugging pose, she lathers her limbs with a sun reflecting lubricant.  His wistful eyes wash away his rehearsed lines as panic of nerves forces words.  “H-hot today,” he grunts.  Her eyes penetrate the thick lenses of this summer’s latest eyewear trend, to make out the edge of each iris, gently wrapped in a color wheel pattern of blue, green or brown, searching for a color connection.  “Indeed,” she replies with a chuckle.  Her soft pink rose-brushed lips paint a longitude placed smile across her face.  “Oh, that smile,” he thinks, “if it’s the last thing I see, I will die a happy man.”  What passworded phrase will unlock it again?  “Come here often?” he tries.  “Indeed,” she mimics.  He refreshes his memory for her face but in all the days he sun soaks in his high chair, her face he cannot find.  How could she slip his sight?  Blinded by the frolicking of little feet in kiddie pools as impervious parents idle eyes to cocktails reach.  He hops down off his tower to eye level be, in hopes that she’ll approach.  The temptation of tactful transactions prompts her forward as he waits, the red-shorted matador luring his bull.

Tipping Point

Take me down

from this pedestal you’ve placed

me upon and erased

my imperfect image.  View

my flaw-full physique,

opaque memories

of truths under rugs you shoo.

Your equal I’ll be

if you will have me,

no space could come between.

This tower is tipping;

our hands have been slipping.

Move quick before our ending is seen.

Atlantic Aggression

The coastline recedes like it’s gulping for air, I hear its distant agony.  The sun God stretches down his arms to paint my body gold and leaves me kissed in the pink pain of his hand.  Will my tide return or was she caught somewhere between the English Channel?  I withdraw my selfishness as the white tips of waves frolic towards dancing their bubbly duets and tripping over one another in a foolish cascade. The solidarity of this shore is all too familiar and the white footprint-less sand beach begs for intruders; like this blanket, created not for a single but a pair and either lover or friend would do to share in the unfamiliarity of this hour.

Ambivalent palms finally choose their side—they lean far to the left.  Poseidon lifts his head above the horizon and calls out a siren warning.  My jubilant waves have turned aggressive—their smiles fade.  I feel an unwelcoming gaze from the blackening sky; it’s telling me to run.  I leave the blanket and what’s left in this melted icebox.  The ponderous pace of my naked feet against this hot stone path leave me last in this race and I am imprisoned under the pissing sky.  Rain hits the tar and sizzles from the stinging touch.  Approaching trees welcome me with provocative gestures and I take cover under the skirts of their leaves.