To Last The Night

 

Citrus twilight climbs the distant canyon wall
in pursuit purple evening
a crown of broadhead pine
atop the shadow
charge the last of dying day
color collapsed some time ago
into somber tones
monosyllabic ghosts
a gathering of minion spirits
stewards brokering for the day's undress
mothers clinging in killer's claws
to their surrogates
affiliates not yet disconnected to the source
that power of the womb

from cold eclipse of bough and stone
a panther wandering willy-nilly into moon whisper
her orbit pools of quiet footfalls
her soothing rhythm inaudible
a lull to sleep nevertheless
a false promise in that pussy's purr
 
Callisto
like Europa
and strange Io
her revolutions no more reverent
than those captive to Zeus' heavenly embrace
brightest diamond winking in the swelling empyrean
yellow like the cat's eyes
soft of paw
hardened heart
a nitehawk in whistling spiel propounds for all
his hunger
the night comes fully
and the things caught in it
we have only ourselves now
to blame
until morning's glow.

TA

A Night

 

We sucked until the smoke ran out
in the red light
sober like a Sunday forgotten
this mirror me wearing folded stockings
boiling magic inside his crystal glass ball
frankly I'd rather his golden curls be on his head
but they're on the floor in roadkill agony
positioning me on his chest
like roadkill ecstasy
not like this
like this

once a southern sugar swallower
a traveller kept like his pet
ogled by the jewel thief
no no little pet
the ball is dangerous
and hot
come curl inside my lap.

TA

Heat

 

Sometimes the heat
the sweltering hell summer heat
wearing gramma beads
and lingerie
choking in my fantasy
hung from a red hanky around my stubble

sometimes I can fall in love with the heat
it's home, after all
sexy like the shadows in the sugarcane rows
baptized in holy water
in sweat
like holy sweat
like holy fuck it's hot
revelations in white rows on a mirror
rap like a rosary keeping time on the radio,

they say a lot of things actually
honestly
it's hard to tell
who's the wolf
who's the lamb
work the hay
go home
turn up the air conditioner
sleep the laborer's sleep
work the hay again,

they say
death makes life sweet,
the heat
it reminds me to live that life.

TA 

When You Pass

 

She rode by in silk skins
in dragon boots
her thigh peppered in purple bruises
   like some very heavy chihuahua had pranced
   in clumsy circles just above her cypress knees
bottom lip ballooned
throwing me the bird with casual affair
legging that two-stroke
and dogging the throttle,

wasn't moonlight that turned me stiff
Sara looking back at Sodom
with a mouthful of salt
that silver shadow at the witching hour
thrown like a vaporous sheet of molten light
gathered a concentration of cloth and coal
blue jeans clustered in aggregate around my ankles
dogma on my tongue
my millions forestalled lock and step
en garde pith helmet horde
sent to battle
again

and again,

ah the pleasure when you pass.

TA

In Threshold Repose

The devil in caricature await the streetlights
in threshold repose
as I do
cicadas clicking crickets chorus
in that brackish mixture
cocktail of air conditioning
and humid southern summer
maybe a cigarette on his black lips
following me in fantasy like a creep
   at the park

she beckons curling that long finger
scorpion bent tipped in painted acrylic red
spreads her knees and pulls me in
my lips mumbling wet stanzas
of her perfect pink poetry

purple evening
maybe a cigarette hanging from his
course black tongue
painted in the night bird's song
the neighbors drag trash to the curb
watch me dance in yellow eyes
yellow light on the street cast
bottles bicker and clank
carcass of warm beer
of youth
each an Atlas holding up his world.

TA