Weak In Her Arms

I’m taller than her.

She knows how to hold me

in a womanly way.

She’s held a tall woman before.

She’s an athlete.

I think that helps her with

confidence and cool calmness.

She’s stronger than my last

girlfriend and my last girlfriend

was pretty strong.

I really like strong women.

Swoon. It’s my achilles.

I love feeling weak in my

babe’s arms.

Born Male

I was born male.

She looks at them on my thighs.

Soft brushy freckles.

She likes them.

Her lush lush lips go upon them.

She says I’m such a lovely, lovely

woman.

I giggle.

She kisses my soft, white legs more.

So I gasp and I moan.

This feels right. It feels succulent.

It feels more appropriate than

how I was originally made.

So I turn and I turn it on

more and more.

I burn and she melts me.

We melt together

in midnight and morning sun.

Lines

Don’t give me that line.
Don’t.
Then you might push me up against
the wall.
Or, I might push you up against
the wall.
We twist and turn, exchange places.
Two kittens playing.
Bites on the neck.
Gentle, trustful, suspenseful,
pull of the hair.
Lips and fingers to the nipples,
teasing brushes.
Two artists brushing each other
with passion and lust.
Isn’t it best when artists
burn with passion and lust?
Walk through the warm light
of your side parlor room,
love that lamp light loving
your riveting figure,
bring the gold mirror,
bring me your beautiful nose,
tilt those hips.
Give me that line again, babe.
Give it to me.
Inhale. Breathe. I like when you pause.
Then I feel that wet silk on my
ancient concubine hands.
And we twist, and we twist.

Some Days Discarded

She knows I’m beautiful now.

Well, becoming more beautiful.

Though she doesn’t care anymore.

She let that kind of feeling go.

But she knows I’m having that

look these days

that others see and think

I’m a delight to look at and experience.

I might bring lust into a room.

There could be lust.

She could see my dark eyes

and my long eyelashes drawn across

the suspended air in stillness, calling

something sultry and sensual,

that dark hair majesty,

there with my cheekbones,

drawing my naughty eyes out

and shining on the naughty thoughts

of other women I see. Who go thinking.

They see me.

I’m seen.

I’m out.

It’s becoming and uncoming

in very much a way it never has before.

She knows I’m beautiful now.

But she doesn’t care anymore.

She can’t.

It would stop her world

and the kind of afternoons

she needs with herself.

The Last Morning

On the last morning

we were together

I made chilaquiles.

It was good, maybe

the best chilaquiles I had

ever made.

Afterwards we made love

in the middle of her living room,

giant windows all around,

the beaming sunshine

on our breasts,

her flower melting upon me,

two ancient lovers

lost in our ancient eyes together.

Gasps and moans from our souls

from another lifetime,

melting into one another,

we brought one era to a close

and brought a new one

into being.

Glorious Lady

That glorious lady
came calling to us.
And we knew she would.
Tits to tits,
fingertips to nipple,
then
mouth, teeth, lips to nipple.
After we’d spent 3 weeks
hurting and hating each other,
that powerful, almost full moon,
on her way out,
she called us together, she beckoned.
Two women.
That’s how we do.
Cleaned our heads.
Cleared our hearts.
Set us to the tone of oak tree shadows.
Around her home,
the backyard.
Her strong, soft, determined,
yet gentle lips
found my smooth-skin shoulder.
Her sultry face, suave mouth,
maybe the only that can.
Then yes, I said yes to her,
yes to us,
for a moment suspended
between gold light
in navy night and those waffty clouds,

and the moon called us like
animals.

Good lord,
what will we do with each other?
Our animalism seems certain.
For that glorious lady
showed us.
Two women.

You know, the moon comes ‘round
over and over.

With The Moonlight

You tell me with
moonlight.
What others cannot say.

I’m woman, but I’m
not woman.
It doesn’t matter.
I’m sex and sexuality.

My eyes shine
bright and jeweled
in night
glancing up there,
lofty clouds sail.

You looked,
saw my brunette hair.
It’s fire,
shaded and shaped,
upon your vulva.
This formula of heaven,
my tongue splits upon you.

You looked.
You remembered.
My eyes still shine.
You don’t want to see them.
You can’t unsee them.

The good lover
you wanted.
A body forged with the
beats of your heart.
The moonlight carried
your cries to me.

I’m here

under the three trunk oak.

Toucheth

How does it feel
when I touch her?
I don’t need to know this.
I won’t know it.
Not in this stalemate of
consciousness.
Heaven on hold.
Though I felt it on her,
her body on top of my fingers,
the whole of her force.
Yes, I want to know.
Does she feel
what my brain feels inside;
raw madness,
imagination alive
and birth and bloom of
some concept
burning neurons
blurring self
between earthling and
angel
right before,
raw body.
I’m melting.

We’re headed down the
West Coast,
someday in the future.

Cigarettes In Angel Land

It was cool.
We shared cigarettes,
two cool b^tches together,
sharing and drawing
lip to lip.
We’d never really done
that before, the sharing…
now 3 weeks after our breakup,
a late night awake
sitting together.
So the full moon comes out,
she’s beaming and beaming.
Suddenly we admitted,
we wanted each other —
two cool b^tches together
on that floating night.
If the moon could steal
what were previously
our differences; it did.
Full light obliteration.
And so moments later,
after she kissed my shoulder,
we f@#%ed
and made love —
raunchy, sensual, pining, and sweet

in that pure and breathless
woman to woman way.

Earthling lovers,

worshipers,
attendants,
tending, tending,
moaning.
The moon!

I will always love you.
I believe you know this.