postcards from the sun
country
life
brief boyz
flesh stone
of wheels and white water
purgadisney
moon tribe
drowning in the flames
mississippi mud sun
postcard
boletus coitus
bush is not my president
conceive me
california high way one
ow wow tao
sand painting path
sushi me
caste party
sonorous bass
there’s no such thing as hiding if you live
though I hear hints growing between the questions
old acquaintances wondering if I’m retreating in the woods
ignoring the world, my urban conventions
sideways implications making it hard to be honest
admit I live away from human luminescence
so I can curl up stars, wake up to myself
dream laced in trees like visible breath
out here, in the country, I am a dirt road cut from the arc of the sun
tracing population epochs into the spiral
Buddha genes, pterodactyl thoughts
alive bones twisting through rivers of time
and I will circle these waters until I am fished into silence
until then, I refuse to dry up
refuse to hide in woods or concrete
or listen to soul brokers telling me to sell
sell high, sell out, sell myself
instead, I write off any game with dumb rules
cut my losses to live in the ledger of my own accord
living out here, I accidentally forgot how to do the boring brutality waltz
I have learned to pick my knife up by the handle rather than the blade
I don’t cry so much as each root is ripped up for pavement
don’t watch the bedrooms stack atop each other
so someone else can get rich off my barely survivable wage
out here, we can look at each other
eyes are not for sale, even if our woods are
luckily these words are on sale
cheap for those willing to risk everything
for a love that can’t be bought
purchased, traded, bartered
it might be learned, it isn’t taught
no patched elbowing for tenure
no, not like that
there are already too many dirty textbooks
staining the wind with dead white facts
whose country is this? yours or mine?
can we divide it?
how about this, I’ll take half, give you half
will you take it? is it enough for you?
if you want more it’s too late
I gave my only half to someone else so I could be whole
look my empty pockets are spilling on the ground
you dream of california
as if it were a dictionary of kevin cosner subtitles
a landscape of michelle pfifer’s cantering
along the freeway-lined beach to the thunder of harley davidsons
the teenage tastes of your manifest destiny
bound like your hard won pectorals
squeezed and stuffed into the green polo shirt
I gave you three dollars for—60 pesos
three weeks of vegetable money
so you could wear ralph loren against your heart
accent the tommy hilfiger letters
professing across your waist
creams, lotions, bar fly aftershave
impossible to buy here
somehow orbiting a waft around you
one of the lucky few
who can speak to extranerjos—foreigners
without fear of arrest
at least inside the middle class doors of your parents casa
my rent money subsidizing your name brand success
you rode overnight on a train from havana
when you heard of me
burst into the pig rimmed patio
during a spring rainstorm
to find me cutting and gluing
my gaze firm in the eye of collage
certainly noticing your archetypal beauty
but not so easily impressed by your sculpted arms
marked with club scene tatoos, rare as nikes
claiming you as an aspiring member of the calle ocho
weeks later you came into my room
sat on the edge of my mosquito net and whined
that I was not what you expected
said you couldn’t understand
why I didn’t giggle at your winks
why we didn’t go out drinking rum together
why I had not become yours
the rooster outside my window sang
as I told you I was a different sorta cali girl
one who’d moved from south to north
had already dipped into the labels, the house, the job
that I saw you hanging out on the wall
crumbling beside the turquoise church
sweet girl under your arm, both of you laughing
that I was holding out for something truer than need
staring back into your silence
I am a death sentence to you
single in my thirty-three years
my existence destroying every hollywood fantasy
as you pray I am an aberration
I rub your hands into mine
tell you I’m not the one to take you from cuba
and speak of resources beyond possession
the mortal magic I have found on your streets
suspended in time like one of ruben gonzalez’s hands
los van van wailing from a boom box
in a windowless dance studio
old men on the malecon crooning hotel california
across from a rusting yemaya alter
all more alive than any tv screen
any backroom broadcasting deal
between ted turner and fidel
you pause to slowly, carefully stroke
the yellow horse on your shirt
then look earnestly into my eyes
and tell me that maybe when you get older
you will understand
but for now
could you have $1.50
the guy down the street has some
calvin kline underwear for sale
“dare I eat a peach”¾t.s. elliot
“I can see your everything”
a lover once said to me
emphatically, with a touch of horror
as I bent down
folding at the waist
straight legged in the middle of a grocery isle
to examine an ankle high basket of peaches
I must get close
I told him
massage their gentle flesh fuzz
with my eyes
my own sweet flesh glistening
like a midsummer sunset
waiting for tourists
the river doesn’t stop
flowing anymore
always wet
that is what I call myself now
always wet, like an indian name
a rich spring
of woman water
all my own
something I can share
something I can sip alone
which is why
picked out the two ripest peaches
handed him one
“here, eat it. I dare you.”
of wheels
and white water
turn off your engine
along this vast twisting highway
give your skin to cobalt curves
sunset framed rock spray
bull kelp bob and breath
pampas fingers waving
luring you to the edge of earth
and beyond
use your soles to part the rattlesnake grass
wind a climb down dry deer path
where slate shale stairs turn
into seaside couches
with a big screen sky
salt caves to explore
semi precious pebbles
wet with briny shine
but get here early
before the sun slips
into lithium orange
before it conspires with ocean fog
drops into a purple stripe
and builds its rainbow horizon
if you do, you can swing
on the crescent moon
stare into venus’s eye
as she winks
into a different tomorrow
as the sky darkens
into a wheel of stars
hey lady, your mouse ears are on backwards
heckles a materhorn-mouthed 10-something from the flying elephant
good eyes dumbo, I shout back
the teetotalers in the teacup line tipping at my volume
lady, you’re really lame, pronounces an eyelined, eye-rolling teenager
in j-lo lip gloss and jeans as she gets into a green cup
am I now?, I mock…lame?, shriller
welcoming any excuse to act out, emote
do anything besides spend and ride
in this stroller-jammed mecca for passive entertainment addicts
I’m in mourning, I tell the people trying to ignore me
I’m distressed
I clutch my breast, cupping the velvet, snow white inspired bra
that’s fastened on the outside of my “DISNEY SUCKS” t-shirt
the line snaking in front and back of me steps away and widens
iye, thanks for the room, I crow in my worst johnny dep
now I can flap my jaw, shiver my timber
pierce the stale, yellow Anaheim air in protest of the anti-culture
that turns girls into parasitic pink princesses
boys into tiny waist loving nazis
can you tell I’m pissed? ticked? outraged?
incensed at the masked chipmunks
duping the unsuspecting kiddies
the right wing ducks pushing
walt’s consumerland for status future quo
an eight year old glowers at my heretical gesticulations
and kicks me in the shin
lady, you’re really stupid
it’s true
I paid $47.50 to endure it’s a small world
with a gaggle of gap-clad cubicle escapees
$47.50 to wait 65 minutes to hear stale hippo jokes
$47.50 to watch a fake bear play mediocre tambourine
I grab my budding kung fu master by the throat and shake him
what am I doing here?
no, what are you doing here?
it’s mousauschwitz
get out, get out, while you still can
I notice his father running toward me
eyes flashing like tiki torches
brandishing a nutty chocolate coated banana
so I release my grip and the kid backs up and turns to run
shouting, if you don’t shut up, the three pigs will get you
as he jumps the line rail and runs for his father
the kid really is a genius
so I jump the rail too
making a break for the mark twain paddle boat
before the disney coppers make the scene
I know I’m out of danger as the boat begins its nowhere circle
still I sit on the tom sawyer island side to eat the last of my pot muffins
the perfume of generator fumes adding another dimension to my high
I must have passed out, cause drool is everywhere
and the straights are staring at me again
so I act like drool is cool and climb to the top of the boat
where I watch fiberglass deer eat polyurethane bushes
I tumble into hysterics which grow louder and more ridiculous
as i notice an obese midwesterner in a denim button-down
with little minnie machine embroidered over her left boob glaring at me
is my good time bumming your experience? she ignores me
who do you like better, minnie mouse or skinny mouse?
her left eye twitches
minnie’s a bisexual you know! and she had three abortions
the ride is definitely over
at least i can have drink in the french quarter
some things never change
I shuffle through voodoo shops, mask stores, pirate paraphernalia isles
but no “yo ho”, no bottles of rum, no whiskey, no tequila, no bar
what kind of new orleans is this? a dry bourbon street?
I’m beyond claustrophobic
Jessica Rabbits are boiling in imaginary pots
to the sound of whining mouskateers
coming down off of sugar
it’s dark and the masses have lined main street
for the electric light parade
I am pressed against a polished trashcan and cannot move
someone keeps farting
so pretty soon I feel like a feedbag
on the ass of a Clydesdale
my only chance for salvation
is to leap into the parade
so, when my window comes
I dive into the fish and crustaceans
marching beside a sexy, red haired mermaid
encased in a huge bubble of glass
we are all dancing to a loud speaker on her truck
every 8 bars or so she pounds her glittering emerald tail
against the side of her aquarium
the people cheer, she pounds again
they cheer some more, pound pound pound
everyone smiling and missing the point
I can hear her, it’s not what they think
pound pound pound, yes, she’s saying it again
get me outta here
stories drift into rippled reflection
as the liberian moon surfaces just this side of sunset
weeks of coaxing exploding into communal expression
drums gathered on sacred sand ashes
fire licking, spiting a center of cherry golds
heating the naked feet of you and I and we
twined in ancient snake coil
unwound monthly like the wax and wane
of iridescent moon breath
exhaling into light night sky
penciled white contour outlining eye and orb
as silver waves rise and fall
rise and fall with hands joined in rhythm
women voices reaching deep into the earth
like underground rivers of peace
where molten echoes reveal
salty vessels of truth
silent earth walker whisper tears
knowing the future is here
healing is now
the lost world has ended
it can never be found the same again life is forever
its hallway follows a twisted corridor past time and tales
spirals in infinite art cycles
creation the only constant in this age of destruction
we are the children of the sky
found at last amid a graveyard of life
driftwood returning to land after explorations at sea
golden gates thrust open
calling us up from the bottom of ourselves
into the collective unanimous river of reason
flowing its taste through blue jaws
teeth baring stars
tongue silently cupped
around the moon
howling
can we feel the heat through pores of rainbow latex
live with playa-encrusted upturned eyes
as creation casts plumes of dioxin into the hologram night
smoke thick in the battlefield of this war already won
bards are burning the bardo
can we ignore it?
the charge of imagination, will it cost us more?
bugless, plantless, reckless, lake lahontan is engulfed
in urbanity, post renaissance sea of time and space
anarchist bodisattvas pedal past on winged bicycles
silver wigs dragging along the ground
a jolly green penis looms behind a group
of women laying on golden eggs
someone walks by and whispers
“human thighs at flesh camp”
a naked man hands out orange wedges
a painted gamine ties herself to the desert floor
so she can cry out for water
each vision swifter than light
a gong that cracks its flames against callused alkaline
witnessing as saber tooth bones peer up
through the thousands of portholes
dug like sores into this black rock city
leaving our children’s children’s children
row after row of virtual Swiss cheese
bards are burning in the bardo
can we ignore it?
the charge of imagination, will it cost us more?
every day of his desert existence
the man goes up, the man comes down
fondled by an inner crew
who tweak his neon, pack and repack his explosives
caress the mala of his sanded fir flesh
until his night finally arrives
and he transforms into the scarecrow of disney’s nightmares
as people pray and scream and dance and trip and weep and run and sleep
tessla coils spiking the sky
accordions and polka dancers dodging the flame machine
all pretend nothing is happening
all pretend everything is happening
someone tells the reporter from the times
that the “man” represents liberation
collective individual release from the bullshit of this culture
the guy from the post reports that the “man”
is the crucifixion of the 21st century
a sort of second coming of artist messiahs
larry harvey says nothing
or at least, he used to say nothing
back in the days before insurance premiums and the media
turned burningman into a business
bards are burning in the bardo
can we ignore it?
the charge of imagination, will it cost us more?
each naked body spiraling through the masks of its genius
limbs dangling in the pyre
sweat tinged with the thrill of cyber blood
spilling, spilling as night spends into morning
leaving a graveyard of stereo carcasses
burnt pianos, strange colors of fire
twisting and driving, driving, driving
driving back to what’s left
as the rest of america celebrates its labor day
with only a few left to pick up
the traces spectating in the open sun
the man is ashes now
lost signs become cardboard tumble weeds
going nowhere in particular
FRENCH TOAST FOR FOOT RUBS
Guilt Dies Here.
I denounce the dryness
give me a body
a current that breathes sunshine
fills the bone membrane
with golden eye drops
calm trust curving through
full and empty spaces
all the way to the salty corners
where chairs and tables and bottles push against red walls
holding up the careful
the planners, the schemers, the watchers
wordlessly nodding toward a stage
a front center microphone stage
with amps and pops and lights and grown-up children
without sunglasses saying
look-this-way follow-my-eyes do-ya-see-its-all-up
love
a love resolved to love
guiding the muddle masses to the muddy river
which isn’t really dirty, just churned up
mishmashed up with inside feelings
ineffable underpinnings yearning to be seen
even when they can’t be seen
can’t find their way to the surface, not yet
because a mile down darkness won’t let them
pull the trash out of the water, not yet
so the river turns browner, browner
keeps on smiling for the people
as it pockets the sun’s hand
turns glittering and pale and prisming on the surface
lets its center of america flow
go and go and go
cutting this divided culture in two
keeping each half for itself
knowing we must be united again
so they play to the stars
keep stirring the people
with music
and the brown looks beautiful
because it is
and all the colors dance
in spiral math
and the river sparkles
with body breathing sunshine
and the sky laughs so hard
the sun says
yes yes please
till the river is again
covered in sunrise
and swirls of gold emerge
in hymns of blue
as brown and white
and red and yellow exhale
and the keys and drums
and horns and strings inhale
and the sky and the river
and the sun and
the body
are breathing with them
I am minimal
human butterflying upstream
in an earthriver of stars
alive to meet the silt
the runoff, the death sludge
logging minds of creative flow
a human beckoning
a human beckoning
like courage cracking sunshine
into the midnight of change
is that you on the path?
simple beside the political
cloud people dropping bomb shapes
into the geometry of peace
we are the future now
the living backwoods of skeleton and color
our waters welling to meet
the naked ruse of time
naked, naked since the moment cold fusion
bore light from the mother’s cave
you are a sun braid
weaving waves of latitude
I am palms pressed together
fingers radiating longitude
be this egg shell, touch it
we are animals breathing into dirt
wind that is vastly minimal
spoken
alive
human
can you hear the silence of these words with your eyes?
now that the rains are here
I look for you every morning
your shiny head
hard, ready, poking out
from earthy covers
shrouded in moist greening hair
how I want you
virile king
mycelial talons unbuckling my dreams
sliding off each night
slippery, wet feet
diving into hunt
I carry my box
open, ready, a crevasse
for your long white flesh
the many faces of you
invite, coax with scent
thread me through naked blue and fallen golds
past deer bones, deserted beer cans
teasing with jacks and agarics
every sexy spotted red nub
making me want you more
there, right there
here
jutting like a bull pine
ripe, thick, ready
you dance me to you
I squeal, you wait
a fixed flower
microscopic pulses
patient as I coo
pull you into my world
lips moist
fire hot
ready
yes I am american
but to me a bush is low growing
something to cut back, like coyote or chaparral
it is the mound of hair erupting from my bikini line
in between my eyebrows
which may be why I prefer trees to bushes
yet despite my love of trees (and because of it)
I drive
I drive from coast to concrete on america’s roads
I fly pacific to gulf to atlantic on her airplanes
eagerly subject myself to tense airport lines
stuff my tweezers into potted plants
to avoid the M16s and camo framing my perilous security
you could say I’m addicted to fossil fuels and the freedom they offer
because I am
which I guess means I support the guns prowling in the bushes
more than I’d like to
cause if I truly pledged allegiance to we the earth
the sun the stars and the people
my engine would spew french fry stink
rather than a dark cloud of evil doer incense
but bush is not my president
it’s true, sometimes I wear red and white stripes with blue
I’ve got a star tattooed on my belly
outside of northern california people think my clothes are
hilfiger-and-kline-go-to-the-front-lines-with-bush ready-to-wear
and smile knowingly, warmly at me in supermarkets and parking lots
initiating me into the inner sanctum of patriots
unaware that I’m fighting for democracy from inside this flag
bush is not and I do not shop at cosco, kmart, buy.com, compusa
walmart, target, sam’s club, price club, rite aid or ikea
not my president
I think the american beef council should be irradiated for mad cow disease
I do not have a president
only friends and co-conspirators in peace
ritalin, methyl bromide, corporate greed, government commodity trucks
fast food franchises, logging interests, hollywood, chait day, fashion magazines,
MTV are destroying simple reason and nature’s laws
I think television causes hemorrhoids
that news, news is a repetitive stress syndrome
say president ten times…
president, president, president, president, president
president, president, president, president, president
it becomes meaningless after a while
do you want to play
golf on a fairway
of perfect chemicals?
have I said this yet?
bush is not
my president
today, like everyday
I am in a sovereign
state of mind
molecule dancing on
a tick’s pinstriped
pant leg
my hand waving
from a dirty
political ground
saying, hold on
to peace
please hold on
in out, in out, in out
up and into the stars, a love sound travels
man woman motion of breath moan opening
into origins, where a hungry sky pours cream into flesh
forms the nascent doorway of me
their eyes, that ground, our heavens
lit beyond time and place
the next body’s journey forming
in the corona of a comet’s tail
like a diamond-faceted question mark
down and to them, I speed and spiral
cascading past an hourglass nebula
the blue eye of god
growing with me until I am so small
I become the entire sky
the “O” in omega, in om
in orgasm
a single shooting pleasure
sculpting my ability to breathe
the family helix
as it births my wand of light
ready to ride
the magic carpet of bone
as they pull and push me
in out
in out
farther, closer
to where love
walks on two legs
california
highway one:
blue trash reflections on bloody oil schisms
winding north, wrapped in wind and fog
wishing both, either, something
could mend the cleave in the ground
everywhere footsteps dare travel
so many on the move now (or glued to their tvs)
cast into a geographical sentence punctuated by flapping flags
each direction fortified by impenetrable double yellow
and 800 billion barrels of righteousness
driving toward each other at countless civilians per hour
the ordinary human caught in the headlights of
holy imperialist soma, drunk in a media spin as common
as the dirt covering Kennedy’s grave
my old car pulls to the side of the road
someone reaches down turns off the ignition
silence and surroundings lost in searching mind
till an orange tabby leaps through the open window
nestles into my lap, demanding love with her kneading paws
I look up and out, see a field of tombstones
rising above pink goblets, the ripe, deadly sweet
belladonnas offering a wartime reprieve
we will all die
I open the door and step onto the road
a dust-caked 4x4 blows past
stars and strips as big as the truck bed rising from the roof
a subaru station wagon with a fish on its license plate frame
passes from the other direction
“BOMB THEM AND LET GOD DECIDE ” finger scrawled
on the dirty back hatch, as the ubiquitous red, white and blue
once again becomes a freedom lover hanging on a cross
its message emaciated, martyred and distorted for power and control
a raptor soars overhead in its wings I hear
the revolutionary hymn of betsy ross
beckoning from behind peppered granite
needle and thread defiant
her hand-wrought patriotism burning at her side
we can make a new one, she says through the wind
across the road a cow flaps its tail
I begin to sew
ow
don’t give me yesterday penned into a novel
or some bitter fruit sideshow opera
trite melodramatic minutia of past lost lover tale
refine this awareness to the admitted distrust of an eyelid
the nose flick of a gaze
let every gesture, glance, flinch be an offering of truth, of presence
the scar of vulnerability cut straight across a face open to caress
before succumbing to anonymous assimilation
folded and planted like just another mind mirror
in the playing field of two-dimensional memory matter
wow
blue clouded clown pants dangle from rainbow suspenders
like a bridge blending sky to cartwheel
red and white stripped smiles wear through open toed shoes
as they tap their shinny sing-a-long song on down the sidewalk
to a backbeat chorus of “good afternoon”, “go baby”, “yeah,
you got it”
the groove a secret to no one in particular
when mama embraces her everyday stage
accepts each bus stop as a cow palace
every queue an opportunity to thrill herself
amid the eye turn merry go round of lookers
the kaleidoscopic cast in the bleachers together
playing twister on the ground coaster of funk
tao
libraries are ghosts of a hungry mind
much like 2am highways heading home
after a lingering mountain of social climbing
mambo mumbo jumbo mumble calypso
casting the same, slick and watery
50s cosmopolitan drink ticket tricks
into the 21st century, velvet crooners wailing
counterfiet pennies into the actors box of amplification
all ears on the door prize no one can win
barking and trolling a game too big to play intellectually
some things must be felt to be heard
the note I left in the sand
the reminder, the asana
the mosaic of my new cubana soul
returns to the sea below this old boeing
like a hieroglyph of momentum
my two month lifetime fingered
into a winged heart, outlined in shells and rocks
filled with bits of seaweed, palm fronds, a bodyprint
all fading with the sun
rising tide ready to smooth its cement
across fleeting canvas
wash away departing monument
my ode to campos, cacao
to companeros offering irrefutable life
open ojos and never ending conga lines
in exchange for promises to post
hastily penned letters to relatives in miami
extend a spare lighter, soap
possibly a dictionary or reading glasses
if I return
hand deliver the sacred belongings
so the capitalist socialists can’t take them from the mail
can’t resell them at a diplomatic supermarket in havana
the city miles from my nascent memories
of fruit gathers gapping at the folded woman
the piles of children giggling, crowding in on her
attempting forward bends and back arches
before somersaulting into the delta
strangers greeting her with namaste hands
as they cycle past, four or five smiles on a bicitaxi
nearly believing that this husbandless creature
could survive at the boca de rio de meil
the mouth of the river of honey
alone
fresh young coco and a journal beside her
standing on her hands
so she could leave
footprints on the sky
I am naked on a table intended for twenty
candle poised between my breasts
its flame casting a hub for the tall votives
glowing at each corner of our bedouin refuge
I forget the desert storm raging
outside the canvas walls
anything could be calmed by the two women
piping wasabi into green florets
around my nipples, guiding the filigree tongue
ever so gently to circle my belly
dab each toe with a kiss of burning heat
one woman is wearing an open kimono
hair swept and pillowed, body exposed like the plate she is serving
her breath-engorged lips hovering half open, maguro-like
below the glitter lidded spaciousness of her touch
the other woman, a china doll in silver silk
white brocade clasps hugging the serpentine banks of her body
raven eyes echoing the black ship imperialism
of me immobilized by our desire to wet
to saturate the appetites of others
I shudder deep inside—it is all they allow
as they balance raw sustenance on my ravenous skin
rendering me motionless beneath their tittering
slave at the banquet ledge
captive to every hi domo moan of imagination
roll by roll they rub ocean flesh to mine
dripping moist stickiness
pungent seas spreading across my abdomen
mingling down my thighs
tickling, teasing, they dollop a triangle
of ginger at the mouth of my current
trace the rivulet of juice as it tingles
into a rosy pool below my delta
their fingers trawling a fish corset
till I am breath and gasps riding epicurean waves
centerpiece rimmed in wild sage and twigs of sundried tumble weed
my open frontier fenced by chopsticks and wine
I am a fresh plate of hunger to devour
words litter the room and nobody bothers to clean up
but the host is happy, her trash can is filled with bottles and plastic forks
if we were looking, we wouldn’t find each other
but we aren’t, so everybody notices the antipasto
megan’s new shoes, the dog’s leopard print bow.
a bathroom counter with aspirin, mouthwash and a razor
says everything we can’t in all that chewing and gulping and nodding
how can you decide which eyes to avoid?
the still warm ex-lover
the ingenue studying your character
the cameraman watching you watch his wife
the producer watching her husband watch you
the ex-hollywood director who treats you like a rerun?
how, when, will we decide
that none of it matters
in this nothingness
decide that people need each other
even if only for one less moment
to obsess about ourselves
spinning around here
well below the sky
saying less, wanting more
yet hoping
somehow hoping
the time will be right
whether neptune in aquarius
or john lennon on the radio
will bring us together
like lovers who chart
every birth mark, mole, freckle
remind that something
as real as ourselves
will guide us through
the dark sheets of experience
leave behind crumbs
honest enough to swallow
I wake to your hands
arcing, cupping
tracing my thighs
wide, work hewn fingers circle
circle closer, wider
dip down between my legs
return to pattern milky paintings
on my you-scented flesh
the wild abstractions of your dreams
mix onto my canvas, tongues and teeth
remembering the night before
eyes barely open
lips already too hungry for words
content to listen to the finches and ravens
speak to the ineffable tones of our blending
I yield to met the colors you extract
nipples mountaining into deep pink
chromatic layers of air, skin, moisture
each insistent pleasure a breath that spirals
into deep acoustics, slow primal
caverning into one long moan with two mouths
four eyes, and not enough space to burrow
into the vast cosmos of our single body
making me want more
dive faster into the music
astonishing silence
its percussion
driving me to grab
the part of me that is you
pull it deeper
sheet rhythms absorbing
the heat sound
of our drumming
body to body
man to woman
woman to man
tunneling into light
or go 