At the wharf I lean back against the damp stone wall, sip my drink and yield to the slippery salamander of sea. The moon is a glistening slice of melon, her whisper carries on the wind “moon child I love you too”. Sinking deeper in to my subconscious I watch a velvet sea bird swoop my reflection from silver waves where the sighs of lovers are lost in a monsoon. Old images flicker across my frontal lobe as I liberate sip by sip. That man with the golden veins doesn’t interest me anymore. Later when my pearl skinned body breaks the surface I’ll bring him back again.
art by Steve Hanks
The world is wintry blue.
Vast and still yet there
is no comfort in the quiet.
The wolf inside me shakes
the snow from her fur,
travels through dark timbered
forests and blue gray mountains.
There are others moonstruck,
dusted with the same shine.
Together we trace a midnight
hover of crows unaware.
After you left I ran along the shoreline past the jetties and scattered surfers hoping to catch the last waves. A haze veiled the shore and vanished in the rain. Fat globules of salt encrusted my eyelids and each breath ripped upward from my belly tearing through my lungs. I sank down on the damp sand behind the old seafood restaurant. Guttural sounds mutating to unearthly howls carried out across the waves. I waited there until they dissolved into the sea.
The sky is always blue and the ocean is frothy meringue not a murky sea where in heavy boots you wade past that place where you lose your grip. Your eyes and throat sting with the rush of saltwater, screams fill your brain but not the air. Sea gulls swoop and squawk, perfect black angles against the sunlight. I open my book by Tennessee Williams whose writing I abhor but the edge of its cover was leaning out as I passed the bookcase, Sweet Bird of Youth.
In dreams my
spirit guide is a Peregrine Falcon
with wings open wide still
I never fly over ancient
pathways of quilted fields or
deep woods of amber resin.
Even in dreams I concede
I am not a bird but never
art by Karol Bak
Your glass is always half empty, whiskey the color of your eyes when you are aroused. I shut my eyes and fixate on the whir of the overhead fan. When you reach for me I turn away, practicing my “out of body” I look down from above until my eyes close. Later we share a hand rolled cigarette, silently watch the curls rise and rip apart in the blades. Your soft eyes ensnare me, expose my liability. It is so easy to distract you, pulling back the sheets we laugh, make love and pull away. Your eyes are the sparkle of stardust, a boy at the top of a Ferris wheel. I swear to not meet again but my heart is a red sports car racing along a razor’s edge.
art by Fabian Perez
this is not meant for you
though you were there.
I am what I have always been,
an elixir of words.
I will not erode like the sand
or patience if it ever was.
Washed up on a restless shore
I knocked and you opened the door.
Now, like the pearls beneath my feet
I carry no burden save love.
borrowed from Pinterest
Firelight dances through the bistro,
We lean in close and when our eyes meet
the rain storm streaming down the
stain glass window reclaims us.
Swept away through sea caves,
caverns and seal black maelstroms
we ride the darkness,
diving deep we take what we need.
Thieves, we steal only from ourselves.
You are perplexing.
When my eye lids close your aura lingers.
I pretend to understand but I have yet to unravel the enigma.
Your soft growl grips my emotions, holds me tender with soft pads
or still with the urgent press of teeth at my throat.
What I know of you I’ve learned through osmosis
those flickers of sentiment deep as roots of teeth.
My instincts send out a warning but with you so near it is too late.
One thing I know for certain you are skilled at breaking and entering.