Isn’t There A Fanatic Somewhere In All Of Us?

What is it with you people?

You, who stand with your heads above the mist,

you with your Easter Island faces,

turned to the here and now, outward looking.

And I, here I am, elsewhere.

I balance on my straw raft,

float toward the horizon,

sea brine seeping past my toes.

In my delirium

I seek fresh water in the depths

and see monochrome men,

the lingering smoke of cigarettes,

the watch inturned and the hands adept.

Somewhere I lie with my face downturned,

my hands downstretched, catching

currents that left the shore decades past.

I couldn’t be happy in bobby socks

and outspread skirts. But.

But I will stand in the shadow by the dance hall wall.

I will watch them spin.

I will watch the play of muscle under skin,

the lucid eyes and the dark ones.

I will watch the sleek wet cling of cotton,

grained on film and left when life was vital.

I can look through the sheer water

and dream of the oxygen beneath the depths.

And dive, and dive again, and bring back pearls.

The Smoker

We will take it from the exhale.
A single drift, a caress of your lips
and the soft pass of silk that billows.
The bloom of orgasm widening in the air.
Your lips part in the afterthought of a kiss.
The afterthought of all that is in you
widening in the air.

There is a dilation inside you.
Your pupils become pools,
your lungs expand. And
your shoulders fall, the strength
at bay. Your chair is an oyster,
your chair a resting place. Your head
tilts back and smoke rises. It is
no signal of distress, no call to arms,
but an incense for your peace.