I
was made to love [him]
--Stevie
Wonder
First
and Last
First
and last man
tangled age of gold
snakes of music joined
at the ears and the mouth.
Long
ago he summoned his
inner cats to the playground
of a school for the children
of exiles experts at living
unrooted lives in multi
colored countries where inside
and outside exist with sex.
Suspended
over
me his landscapes pluck
at the adolescent heart
buried deep in a box
with secret animals
made of stars that break
against tongue
and lengths of saliva.
First
and last man rising
from north country
salt touches steel
The eye watches
silently from the window.
Mother of Sound
Mother
of the ideal man
she begins her daily climb
up the stairs of heaven
large muscle inside writhing
pushing out through the mouth
entirely of sex the infinity
of her swelling children lifting
the sequins off her dress
red feathers fluttering between
her hands mother of sound
rhythms rising from Aretha
woman colossus her
fingernails are piano keys
music for her son in my arms
Cat Man
In
the beginning
was cat usher of
new age of doors
that curl at the corners
gadgets for loving
as complicated
furniture collapsed
into pillows sheets.
His
legs preceded him
they turned on the wire
less fingertips looked inside
the iris of first and last
cat as he struggled with
beasts large and small
biting at the union.
The
room cleansed
of my ghosts their dependents
welcomed his claws
as they etched deep into
the walls: alphabet
of foreign tongues
for purring cat men.
The Origin of the Species
She
would play with
her many selves hoping
for red-hot firemen to feed
the crescendo of tenderness
which today tie her
to the flaming heart
of man eternal
She
knows his hands
move the little people
on the map where countries
born from her sex conform
to a world without end
for woman and man
Mister Sam Cooke
He
comes bird of song.
The sky is near
his translucent voice
leaves the fatherland
behind as he wrestles
with ancestral preachers.
He
rides a car of gold
wears his song invisibly
stitched to his heart
where it struggles with
other souls stirring a kingly
meal made of musical notes.
His
tools are wings rising
angel collective throat
caught in the jaws
of mechanical instruments
emiters of desire sending us.
Comparative Stylistics
He
rises with the tower
of Babel from a bed of tall
grasses desire's fur spreads
its ochres to the four points
in the sky which moves with
the seasons: white and black
to green we forge discreet
alphabets to translate our moans.
Therapeutic Touch
I
am mad chair swivelling above
him drawing out of his belly
voices that speak his cadence
connecting me to the masters
of a wardrobe of song renewed
in the mouth of warm stone
rhythms that wane and do not
wane inside the moon is
the drum they buried in our sexes
perfect fit for a universe
where man and I play house.
Sartorial Instincts
Man
is elegant when I iron
his shirts with my teeth
keep his edges intact.
His
armor changes as I double
the size of my love layer
upon layer of breasts
slowly stripping him
down to his warm seams.
I work
the complicated fabric
may we lock heads inside
the sewing kit where his soul
and mine are folded into moans.
Freak Show
We
meet man I and our
retinue of shadows
at public functions
where the length of love
is discussed by others.
Long sessions. The words
fall exhausted at my feet.
A special
panel on the theory
of whispers sews man and me
to the spines of large tomes
which are to be ground on
the archival stone where
our lives are put to the test.
I beseech
him to leave the conference
floor to join me inside the diorama
where prairie grasslands and summer
breezes extend our moist breath
insuflating life into the king and queen
inside our other selves.
Just Man
Ideal man never fails to turn himself
inside out for love of the dispossessed.
He eats bitter meals made of their
detached eyes. Quivering he listens
the
murmur of their pain pounds
at his temples as he grows furious
lashes at the machine breaks down
the doors howls into the night imploring
the great eye for answers:
Hunger
gnaws
at the belly of children who listen
to fluttering of wings of birds devoid
of themselves echoing voices
of the dearly departed who live
under ash and snow.
Rider
He
comes. The sky is near
his new self abandons
the strange animals he inherited.
He
rides a horse made of gold
wears his heart invisibly
stitched to mine and enters the room.
The
eye of the storm watches
from the window: I have
his tongue caught in my mouth.
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