I am a museum.
There flows under me a raving light
down the ravine,
My palette shifts.
It has rotated
on Nature’s turntable
turning and pausing,
perfusing and dotting
with its bliss.
Finally this most potent elixir
by the portrait of
you kneeling over my shrine,
these long thick legs of mine.
I think not about vulnerability.
for I am alone with one to love,
you and erotic instinct.
This is not surrender,
but a summons
for your pleasuring of me.
With me supine
and you on your knees,
you purr and sigh,
tower and breathe;
as I coo in the cool caresses
of your wet lips on my knees.
Into my thighs ribcage belly hips,
the invasion of your exquisite hands
scalds rays of pomegranate red heat
through my porous sands.
Like white coals awaiting a flame,
my soft flat stomach arches
into your teasing game.
In hot hands I feel your desire
indelibly soft, traveling
up thighs to hip bones,
up waist to rib bones.
Sliding down muscles of shoulders
across mounds of breasts,
pulling tight over hard nipples-
you know what makes me moan
and create a lava-like glow and flow
of bubbling red tides
beneath radiating flesh.
Your limbs comprehend
my body art
like no others dared-
petting my need and filling my desire
with the higher laws of gods and sex.
Reaching deep into art and marriage,
conjuring up lucid effects.
infusing flesh with new life.
The brightest colors
not just the reds, yellows, and blues
of tertiary spectrum,
but pomegranate, sapphire, opal, and gold,
vanilla, marigold, night, and emerald.
Urging me to paint your every inch
with their bold wetness.
Licking, kneading, scurrying, haunting-
your arms become wet azure soil,
your hands, my onyx black sculptors.
Your chest glows with marigold
as pools of pomegranate sweat
evaporate off slick concaves
and taunted, fertile breasts.
Your taut vibrating skin
soaks my brilliant colors
into its dark soil,
coalesces with the primitive
to recombine with my sweaty
disavowal of control.
When I can no longer continue
consuming you with my eyes
as I love to see.
Too caught up in the breath
and feeling you feeling me.
I will seizure with love,
sharing my everything.
For you to drink up
into your pineal spring.
You stay locked in
until the waves pass.
Your riveted attention
rescuing me from celibacy.
Imagine how you please me
and I worship you,
how we make love.
Yes, in ten different ways.
We’ve only just begun.
from The Master Circadian Clock Cycle 1-8
like a cat
wandering along sill,
eyeing the moon
with wide yellows
and long jowls;
The Ninth Symphony
crawls into crashing sycophancy-
but only inside your head,
and in the flap flap
of domestic curtain ropes,
golden for you.
Snowy Brooklyn hood
the peninsula’s lusty line
with wind bustling through porches.
Lady Manhattan, stoically xenophobic,
lies still beneath her cloak.
Prospect Park sleeps, as good as dead
hides the sleeping life
in her pillowy bed-
the hipster’s last
I had a dream once,
this night in fact,
of sitting still
with pomegranate juice
rolling down my chin,
and of little bliss roller coasters
climbing up my brain.
photo by Gia. Prospect Park, Brooklyn. 2004.
Fortuitous berries stain our mouths furry
with Rorschach patterns, behavior fitting
for hedonist artists, derisory
and eating less until at last quitting.
Naughty plans release our minds from pining
for cream with our plate of appetizing words
for freedom from our elaborate stages,
for our way out of archaic attachments.
Springy noodles bounce out of the sky
into my motor center, and you know where from there.
You’re digesting them now; eat your fill.
To please me, to please yourself if I dare.
Dare ensnare, enlist you to my side
of this fanciful life second we get.
Come play with me, give yourself latitude
to be and not care, to care so so much.
The moon will bring you to tears.
Gigantic phrases energetically tease me,
flying by my apartment window in boldface fonts.
Subliminal by daylight, brazen by night,
they scream: “Write, write, write!”
My fishing net lays limp by my side;
but I refuse to trap them, to box them into my mind.
I’ll let them fly free to flap off their meaning
and drench my neighbors with their passion globs.
My miniature ledged Buddha goddess turns her head
away from me to wave control goodbye.
I think I do, too. But freedom keeps getting bigger.
Just when my notion of flying becomes unreal,
I die again and rebirth into more sky.
Only dregs give understanding of bliss.
I did not know you then,
but still I met you for an unexpected rendezvous
outside of pure chance, and inside of self-actualization.
And in between, life happened, struck me love.
I’m an eagle-watcher, go-getter, Earth Mother,
more feline than femme, mirage than mate.
Forcing you onto me will not a child make.
Forgetting nothing about the foraging nights,
we scurry forward into the cluttered earthquake
of leftover bee bodies and diverted flights.
We choose the bushes without needing to hide.
painting by Susan Bee
A beautiful mother goblin
wants to eat my insides from without
to get within my cultured tongue.
Ever had that sensation,
of déjà vu, before recollection?
Moats of grilled octopus and eel
fill my dreams.
Meat mattresses and Grecian stalks of radicchio (purples and teals)
foreshadow the paths I will take to streams.
I’m a lizard in this night reverie
and more and more in my days now every.
Prancing in and out of waterfalls
and basking in the mist of doing nothing
but acknowledging everything to me that calls.
Maybe a ten-toed sloth or quilless porcupine;
I see graceful pythons and perfect people divine.
Jesus was purple; or was he not?
I could be mistaken.
I was mistook for purple once too.
I may be olive, but never green.
I’m a kalamata