the prostitute and the mania of a waning Moon
I start writing the words
black notebook and pen like
butter on biscuits steaming
from the oven quick slid
the ease of melt
where a mouth fits
like it does a kiss
just remember this is why
we close our eyes
to see what we feel
inside another
like each time
we ready that leap
at the cliff’s edge
of our oblivion
getting in
the thin parts
of our let go
and ride home
here inside
another poem
I walked for blocks
in the empty desolation
of Paris at midnight
on Bastille Day 1987
hotel after hotel was filled
and every shop closed
for a nation’s holiday
before I found
a terrace spill of light
and a sign that said
we had a vacancy
she asked me
to light her cigarette
and I did
didn’t know
if this was a movie scene
I dreamt about on the train
or if this was going to be some
long shadow streetlight trick
of ‘Black Spring’ painted
in the unseen
stipple flicker
drawn into her exhaling
vine trails of smoke
in the dark
was this going to resolve
my palatable amounts of attraction
who was here
as witnesses on cobblestones
and heel clicks
who would write of
a stereo vulnerability
to the animal inside us
that makes any image stick
to the tines of a ponder
to the pause of what if
is she coming on to me
or am I just the mark
at the end of desperation street
she had red button lips
and a waist that cinched my eyes
to her hips where they wore me
in a ribbon of sway as she approached
she stuck to her guns
and burned the vested Sun
into spoonfuls of sugar
and hope
she drew into anticipation
what a soul’s medicine can be
a symphony in
the plunge cylinder of yes
please me,release me into what
your magic beans do
when your eyes find my skies
night to day to night again
handle on the horse
bareback to English phrase
that leans into me as a reminisce
as I kiss this thought
and light another
of her cigarettes
she talks into my hand
and we walk in
my pocket full of francs
full of wanting her
as my loins filled
with a right now kind of
desire that tells a heart
not to forget to burn
me here too and
into this fire and
and into plain view
just open the terrace window
so you know to let
what started down there
make it all the way up and in
so you can never forget
that you took a chance
that memory would stay
and wait here too
like the smell of her
often does
coming back
to every morning
I have black coffee
and hot biscuits
with butter melting
meaning slid
EJR (c)
poem 117 of a poem a day for 2012 (NaPoWriMo5)
