Of cricket-song

I saw your leg hair tonight
and it turned me on;
I thought of the intimate beauty
we will have–how it will go on and on
no matter what they prescribe
oh–the sound of them scraping
more beautiful than a summer
of cricket-song.

Til death due us together

the beautiful hurts me,
and she asks me five ****in’ times if I really mean it
when I tell her she’s the most beautiful creature that God ever made
(You know. . . at least I believe you when you compliment me!)

rules are broken in pairs, it seems
actions more valuable than boxes sitting on my chest of drawers,
and I can’t cash these actions until I die
(because we both know we’ll never see each other again.)

Your dream girl

shits and pisses and bleeds and winces–
especially during the miracle of life.
She is not some smooth plastic object or mechanized road machine.
She is a living organism breathing and trying to find her way through life,
weak and strong, brimmed with success and tragedy–
the solemn and the sullen, the giggle and the hiccup.
She is fluid and fickle, steadfast and solid–
awaiting your coming, yet venturing forth without you.

She is your dream girl but never was a dream.

Winter night moonrise

Awaiting your silver beauty to pass my warrior stance
Bellatrix pulsates for you, dearest Artemis,
where Apollo’s rays cannot hinder
fading in the same horizon you squinted.
No vengeance festers, my virgin doe,
my adoration holds steady as your bow
my body pulses from your prior pierce
even over this myriad of years.
Side, Merope, Eos, none measure,
for you snared my untamed anger
in the moonless Cretan night
away from Oenopion’s plight,
hunting stag, foraging affection
between you and this lone constellation.