Pick it up; handle it.
Hands have driven us,
finger manipulation of
My fingers ache tremendously
when you’re around.
Fingers help spread the news.
Lost; growing black inside,
all twelve have padded tips.
You punish me for telling you my fantasy,
At night I lock the door so no one else can see,
Watch while the queen,
In one false move,
Turns herself into a pawn,
Drinking gasoline to quench your thirst until there’s nothing there left at all, I
Went to the doctor I,
Went to the mountains,
And then you happen to bring up reincarnation over,
A couple of beers the other night,
Spitting out all the bitterness along with half of my last drink,
This is no ordinary love,
Able only to gasp at the splendor of the sun,
Saturns rings are lit by the Universe’s light!
Photo – ♦Natsumi Hayashi♦
-evocative short poetry-
Attack your assailant with the baguette,
You are carrying in your hand.
Beat the crap out of the hoodlum, male
Black or white, think
Not you must explain,
Why, during the attack
Men should not wear,
Flaming pink knickers, demand
The sex of the person approaching,
On the dark night,
In the lovely cottage,
Be determined after you have finished
The lady so obviously not,
In the red heels,
And the blue make-up
Knows how to use her baguette, just
Do not touch her strong leather hand-bag.
Picture – Viewpoint♦
-short evocative poetry-
Alone in the end
there is no privacy.
Only one mind,
which must love
Better practice death,
and live life alive.
Sometimes I watch other women
Lithe creatures and voluptuous curves
Bodies and souls I imagine
I could have inhabited (inherited?) in some other life
Life led by hips
Bared breasts not too sensitive to touch
Fluid movements and intentional spines
(I must have been born too stiffly pale to dance)
In love even with blood
While I lie awake writing poems in my head
No paper by my bed
So I think them to myself
Love letters set aflame
Mandalas left to the will of the tides
Carrying those grains of colored sand
Broken and diffuse
To fish who don’t care
While shame-stiffened muscles
And life with clean-cut men
Stealing the seduction from the small of my back
Make me dream of feminine embraces
That teach me the fullness of the sea
Ugly is beautiful again;
we shave off the hair,
run from the tower,
it’s a slow orange burn,
a time to bolt,
a time to pull open clouds.
All blues inside, beautiful blood;
the old skins are dying or dead,
peal and peal and peal,
underneath is the art of life.
Underneath we strive harder,
we see clearer, animus is visceral.
Orange kinetic fluff in the Oval,
we see Towers falling clearly above,
so Goats stand taller, don’t bolt;
our new path leads deep.
Until a snow fire improves us,
burning our lives bright in snow,
crystalizing patterns in code carriers,
goats will bolt. Tower. Life.
Today at sunset
just done working together
looked west and beheld
the sun, rays in mist,
casting a shadow upwards
past a lone cumulonimbus could
wearing a dense black crown
that wasn’t there.