One Sweet Gulp

quick bolt tight lightning
grip, thigh deep
in thick sand

south landing mound
in palm of your hand
hot air

tumbles over bare
back, raw hide lash
prints where cougars

Black panther, I pray
for a taste
of your thread,
silk lessons spinning
deep under

pricked thorns leak
wildly like

a gesture
a kiss
a swift, single move

then tongue to tongue
a battle for the best
pulse over pulse

I Am A Sin By Nature

In truth, I open my eyes.
I am punished
for my power.

I have refused water to dry people
and tied anchor to those who heard the word
and believed it.
I became a burning flame in
bedrooms of strange

men, who desire reward
like Corinthians say they deserve.

I am a sin by nature,
by thought,
by curve,

and undeserving.
I open my eyes.
I am power.
It is true.

The Desert Is Infected pt.2

My eyes settle blue on boulders,
on the desert.
She doesn’t know I am here.
She doesn’t know how I watch her,
or how I crawl with
tortoise in patient crawl or
how I soar with her carnivorous

She is like woman,
like God
and sperm
and sea
all at once.

Her magic is dry and alive.
What is
to hate is to love.

She acts like death
but her surface is in force.
Her dry stomach spreads thin.
Her hot mounds curve Earth.
Her treasured liquid leaks from
her spike covered fruit.

She is dangerous.
She does not fear exhausted corpse’.
She swallows inside out,
spits it out and keeps it
for company

and when  buzzards come
and when  flies come
and when  suns change course

she will suck dry
hard bones
deep within her sand
burying them
in her desert forever.

Through Fleshly Relations

What has slithered up my insides
and is now resting in pieces?
The unknown’s tiny particles are
dispersed when
micturated. White, cotton balls of
Oh, pitiful, vulnerable, beautiful

Cause of the carnal side to
devour me –
inside out; lunching on the
gifts a woman is admired

It is as if the
curvaceous tissue clutches the
wanton plague; as if it desires
a rest from matronly duties.


The Eggs Are Dead In The Kitchen

The eggs are dead in the kitchen;
an ex-lover is dead in
the bedroom,
under the sheets –
posing as silk.

I try to convince the ceiling
of my intelligence.
Laying on my back for three minutes;
faking fever.

The eggs are dead in the kitchen;
the coffee is growing mold – I am
polluted like the grout in
the shower where he
pulls and pulls
satisfaction debilitates his words.
Till he cannot
tell me that the eggs are dead
in the kitchen.

Plastic Woman

I am taking this body in
on Monday.
It is not sick, but something
is wrong with it.
It did not grow how a woman is supposed to grow.

This body refuses to let a woman grow into a woman!

Mother was given enormous gifts. Too big!
Mother had a box that only
opened to herself. It is not Mother’s fault, though.
This body is a betrayer!
Ever since this body was young – forced to
lay down
with a man in a cement hall, it’s tongue burdened
with his suspicion – It should have been
beheaded for treason!

Oh well! On Monday, the sun will rise, (unless it does not), and
I will pick up this unloyal body
and throw it at the surgeon and he will
make it into a woman!