It's you!
I've understood it ever since,  
she who hummed me,  
a most tasty recipe,
To make me gasp in sheer delight!
But Alas!
My gasp was so strong,
that I almost died from it.
Darkened dreams,
so rich and creamy!
If only our lives could always be,
Such a velvet libation,
As the ****** sensation,
of chocolate!

The thoughts of leaves interest me,
Fragile fall, crisp with color,
harbingers of cooler times.
How fleeting flow their days,
How long lay their nights,
Memories of summers past,
Those thoughts that still drift,
Into many a fragrant eve,
hanging gently in their trees
to sing a song of rivers and streams,
and melodies,
of lemon scented fireflies.
This where the image of leaves,
is mirrored in the realm,
of my mind’s infinite summers.
Where the thoughts of leaves,
blow wild and free,
and memories past still wander.

I dreamt that for you
I had swept a path,
through a bright summer wood
placing soft scented rose blossoms there.

or perhaps,
having no way of knowing,
I had only swept the path
between those many scented roses?

no matter,
tonight the rain will again fall upon itself
to wash away the roses
so strange how the rain tastes like tears.

I don't think answers should be doled out by popularity,
or even by the general masses huddled within the light,
But by those of us with an individuality,

i am not lost, not anymore,
i have not found freedom,
but am working hard,
toward that end,
and right.

Exiled from my own home, I walk through
A lattice of shadows in the hushed rooms.
No one speaks, but in that emptiness, I sometimes hear
The sticky vernacular of the unreal.

The scents that used to wisp around me when she passed,
Gardenia on an evening out,
are but memories past pleasant now,
Ethereal butterflies gone back to their cocoons.

Nothing relents: I deal with the damage
to my downspouts, drainpipes, the kitchen sink.
One more hard storm and I’ll be drilling weep holes
In the basement walls to let the stink out.

In my mind,
I hold the words,
that life denies me.
Words sweet words,
speak love sweet love,
if only to grow wings instead,
if only to rise above.
Words are not speaking,
as songs are not singing,
words to wound,
words to please,
words to bring me to my knees.
All day I have written words.
My subject has been just that:
Words.
And I am wrong,
and the words are wrong,
and so the words I burn.
Cerebral pages of them.
Words.
Desperate I ask the moon,
to gather her moonlit words,
and those too I burn.
But a poem still remains.
Of the words, with the words,
in the flame, that is now the words,
I disdain.
So I burn the words to contain,
Those meaningless words un-heard,
my words,
and am then burnt,
by all I cannot save,
all I cannot love,
and all I leave un-made.
But the words,
the words remain the same.

Once I am dead,
I will evoke night vision,
So that I may see,
From beyond my grave,
All those people beautiful,
Whom I once found ugly,
Within my living life,

Delirium trembled the lemons
Green envy soured the limes
The apples cut with peals of laughter
As the onions started to cry

The berries grew more juicy
When the kiwi told the tale
Of the bananas secrete wishes
To run off with the kale.

But she had always been there,
in one guise or another,
to trace the skies in strange delights.
With her brilliant wings of radiance,
She soared through paths of glittered air,
There were no stars,
no suns to seek,
no Mars, no Venus, no Saturn’s rings
But still she flew in harmony,
Above my jealous stare

The memory of your scent so familiar and pleasing,
Like a pale mist lies between me and these lines.
And the north wind washing through this tent,
Sets the cold canvas walls to shiver,
While my mind plays back your delicate quiver,
As my tongue slipped between your glistening lips.
My nerves sting at the spatters of rain on the fabric,
And I am uneasy with the howling of the wild dogs
outside in the night.
In the cold, devoid of light,

Where are you my love?
Why have you thrown my devotion away?

Having no promises to keep,
and no bed to head to,
immeasurably shortens his miles.
Demons of the dusk, a knight’s villain of the dawn,
Having nowhere to belong.
Whose thoughts these are he’s sure to know,
he lives in silent shadow though,
Somewhere later in life.

I found myself wandering a darkened wood.
discovered within in a brilliant forest.
Between past ghosts and future dreams, I got lost.
Long now has anyone asked a promise of me,
none will notice should I choose a bed or a box,
a matted rug or the forest deep.
Like promises made and left by others
It matters not where I sleep.

What is it you would like to do she said?
Please listen close I returned…

I would like to ravish your body and mind,
submerging myself in their depths,
It would titillate me,
With fresh thoughts of you,
while I bask in your sharp intellect.
I would tickle your toes with my tongue,
And gaze on your face in the sun,
I would feel your soft lips upon mine,
And laugh as my breath breaths you in,
Your sweet mouth would be
So exquisite to me
As if flavored with berries and wine.

Is there more she said with a flush?
Oh much more I gasped in a rush!

I would give you a candlelight bath,
In water soft scented with spice,
I would sit next you,
Inhaling your dew,
All warm in your wonderful light.
I would taste the backs of your knees,
And all other spots that you please,
I would peacefully sleep,
wrapped up within you,
And wake with you wrapped up in me.

Well she exclaimed, please do continue.
My pleasure, my love, I replied.

I would whisper my longing desire,
while caressing your graceful neckline,
And with the softest of touch,
Enjoying it much,
I would kiss your most lovely behind.
I would wander the depths of your eyes,
While I gasp in continued surprise,
At the one thing I know
As I lounge in your glow
Is that I’ll love you for all of my life.

Well then she says,
What are we waiting for!
Let’s start the bath!
And me?
Well,
I’ll be a rubber ducky!

Deliciously delicate she says,
But how would she know?
could she taste her succulent syllables,
as they dripped from my quivering lips?

On his table is a cup,
filled with a need,
to satisfy her receptacle,
of weights and measures,
without such whose proportions,
he could not know.
His own hands mix sugar and flour,
chocolate and longing.
His mind must be precise,
Or her words may grey out,
to a flavorless poem,
a definite defeat of taste.
The chocolate cake he knows she likes,
smooth dark frosting,  
rich with butter.
His mind needs more than tablespoons,
Of sugar and flour, cups of it,
Mixed with a pinch,
Of a sweet sultry gaze,
Sifting through his lover’s day.
Till with his hand he cups her chin,
And turns again,
to mix her mouth with his.
This woman is his table,
And he the cup.