Bourbon Street

During the late afternoons I sit at the counter of Woolworth’s sipping vanilla coke watching the day turn into night or dollar green but it seems as Gershwin said, not for me. It is dog days and I am hot and tired and mostly luckless, angry too, my new love dying on the vine. I daydream myself into a hot soak in a fancy clawed foot bath tub sinking my dusty body into lilac scented bubbles. I imagine lying back with closed eyes as the hot water flicks at my peony nipples. I am what one would call self employed these days.
Settling for a motel shower stall I scrub my body that smells of dusty magnolias with rose scented oil until it glimmers like alabaster. Dutifully stepping into a black sheath and slipping on thigh high seamed stockings and heels saved for the occasion I confidently make my way onto Bourbon Street. At the corner the sounds of a sax carry through the open door of a darkened bar drift up the alley over the pink roof of a sad brothel. From my booth I stare through a prism of glass at the Dog Star and blow a kiss to the man in the moon already yawning at the deep purple sky.

Later In the Dark

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

Night LIfe

From my  window  a sliver of  moon casts a haze over the water. I can hear the  rush of soft waves. Those  creatures beneath the depths,  do they sleep,  dream?  If  parted do they grieve?  Down the street  I can see  the lights from  an all night store. A man waits behind the counter.  Cautiously he  slips his hand under his jacket and takes a long swig from a  bottle.   A group of young thugs gather outside the storefront.   I imagine them  harming the storekeeper.  Distracted by the young whore taking shelter in a doorway they laugh and whisper. Oblivious to her vulnerability she sleeps as though she has never heard of  birds of prey that swoop down with jagged talons hungry for butchery.   I watch intently  in case I need to call out a warning  but losing interest they disappear into the dark.
Maybe nothing is real. Maybe   everything I see and hear is an illusion.   I lose focus on the  outside world and the burn of you stings relentlessly just below the surface.   I want to sleep forever, not give a damn about you.

 

Moonlit

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.

Pagan Dreams

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

really earthbound.

 

Image result for Karol Bak art bird lady

art by Karol Bak

out of body

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

confession

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.

Steve Hanks art

borrowed from Pinterest

washed away

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.

Man

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.

tigres-bebe

Harem of clouds

Some nights I must draw a line,

a demarcation  where dreams

and   subconscious bend perception

to  shape reality.

In my  savage dreams I peel back my skin

press bristles of  feathers through my bones

take to the sky on a fury of wings

In search of your harem among the clouds .

 

 

 

wings1

art by Karol Bak