Thursday, November 20, 2008

variations on a theme.

I remember your lips: a sliver of pink angelfish making love.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008


you walk around
as you scatter your petals
of pressed hydrangeas
from your father's bible

in polyester paradise
your hips swing like the bell
at Notre Dame de Paris
and pardon me if I notice
more than what meets the nerves
'cause I came to observe you
not to touch what I don't deserve

it wasn't real, nor was it wrong
but I saw it in my head
under the looming moon
and I felt I was a pistol
firing out of my bedroom