The Bag Full Of Cats

Necessity is a short verse
shorter than a haiku,
but that implies more.

Nor Any Space Between Us

let not my eyes devour you, nor my lips
let my fingertips taste your cheeks with delicate touch
might my palms praise you more than my tongue sing psalms
might not I taste you once with my the hunger that eats at hands

Shagged

Dripping sweat, for once
You've earned your keep.
The end of it all and we get
to sleep

45

This sound, picked up on digital recorder.
My fingertip tracing angels singing Hosannahs
upon the back of your hand.
Let my thumb solve the riddles of your small hairs.
Let me kiss the sweet mint of whisky
evaporating from your skin.

The Pickup Line

Come on midnight moonlight magic rain
Rise up against those random stars and preach down on me
I am the naked prophet of your warm moist skin
Your horned god in blue jeans, night storm speak to me
In this my my most difficult hour, my flower, my rose,
my heartbeat, my beer, my longing lingering tingling
from between my pockets to my most sanguine pose
just come down from those clouds and plant one on me

Waiting on a Train Blues

I've been waiting on a train
Your train, that chugging fucking steel & steam
train of thought that you, true
as blue skies casting that tragic shadow
moved through, too fast
that's plain, because I'm making the same mistakes
with my confidence, too slow with my electric
gigolo boogie fast-track dance dance dance
In fact it's cliched, so new again and again
wash, rinse, repeat, out of my lidless stare
I want to repair this tune and make it jazz music
with that beat on the upswing past the melancholy
and right back into the brilliant horn, so know
I feel so solo in this, so low that I'm thinking
of that cloudy sky and sunshine and pickup lines
so nice on ice, so you you you, that's what I'm about
is plain, these fucking steam and steel rail train
far away blues

And if if this stuttering consequence, this penitentiary
of my natural wits and eloquence, about your memory
this gray halo hello that I'm finally realizing paroles me
back to some common magnificence of my childlike trust and mind
the way that genetics or God designed
puts my trust on the front seat
of the bus, next to the next step child of the wandering thought:
her, and her eyes
I could stop

And say, these are my golden shores of opportunity
in her lingering stare, or at least in my prayers
of such subtle lusts that cause the saxophone to sing into the air
Sing saxophone, sing with me, to me, for me,
from the rumpled sheets to that lover's whisper
from the first slick enticing kiss to her breasts on my shoulder
Fold her into my next song, the one I'm singing into
past you to her her her, and only her unto mine eyes
last night's liquor and tonight's sweet sweet wine
I'm over you and so into her, my next princess
I will wake her with roses while she washes my feet,
Yes, these and you

You're on that train like tomorrow's yesterday's news
After the goodbyes, tears, and ill-meant I-Love-Yous

Fucking rail and steel steam pale proof I failed can't keep-yous-
Just leave.

You'll meet someone on the train, or some other train, or somewhere,
someone else, make your love with someone like me who'll
be tough like me while you shove that awful green bag over your next seat
on the next train, wash,
rinse,
repeat,
he'll go home tired and alone, not meet any dark-haired Helen
to launch any ships about. He'll wonder where you're going in a silent room,
if you ever really loved him, if there was something he could have done to
keep you.