DECONSTRUCTION

It started close to sunbreak on a Monday,

when a woman on Washington

unhinged the East facing wall of our building.

The wall trumpeted against the asphalt,

sent river wind through the cubicles

to tussle us desk junkies down to the ground.

We all leapt from our levels and skipped

barefoot, loose in the streets.

This inspired a few taciturn transit riders

to pull out the cotton in their ears,

step down from their bus seats

and let the tired iron wheels roll free.

Just down the block

a kindergarten teacher put down her weapons,

surrendered her students to a lesson in seduction;

she taught them how to peel up hot asphalt

and carpet-roll her supine body into the street.

By this time

we had uncovered the keystone in our skyscraper,

formed a chain of nine-to-fivers to pull it free.

As the tower fell

for the first time everyone stopped what they were doing

to listen to the way the glass sings as it dies,

and metal finally let out it weary sigh.

We did nothing as a mother of four took her willing children with

her and stepped off the sidewalk's end.

it was a penny pincher who broke the silence,

dropped the first dime smile into the blind man's can that sent

the construction worker's hard hats high in the air

as we all broke out in applause to commend their escape.

But it ain't a good show if it don't leave you Hungry for more.

So we rushed around town,

pulled free every keystone ever cut,

gave our last and greatest commands as monarchs of this

paradise

by returning all we'd plundered,

threw crumpled dollars over our shoulders like bread crumbs

to remind us that we never

wanted to come back.

We watched as those incapable of change

readily let their Death grip on life loose

instead of risk the urge to rebuild.

Along with centuries of industry, their bodies crumpled back to

earth.

Now we're somersaulting towards the Sunset,

a mountain of urban ash at our backs,

and you may find this too cliche to be true,

but this riot and I,

we're no longer willing to live in a world

where we can't even

imagine this.

No Title

In the Temples of Aphrodite
priestesses would welcome Pilgrims with open thighs.
Each Spring they would dip their Breasts in scented oils,
and spread their sacred ass cheeks over cool marble floors.

They'd Fuck whoever came knocking
until the very walls exhaled their funk.

But our World
bows to pilgrims
who take the offering
and make no sacrifice in return

Sir,
when it comes to women
I love the cherry troublemakers,
the bombshells busting at the Seams.

You had Me

from the moment you exposed yourself
to the boy's debate team.
You told them,
"It's Every woman's right to
express, flaunt, or otherwise
exploit her Sexuality."

And that may or may not be
fucking 251 men
in ten hours
on camera.

After you finished your masterpiece,
breaking the world record gang bang
by delivering 251 happy endings
in the time it can take me to write a single page,
well, baby, even the camera lens was Steamed Up.

When you welcome them with
bring it in your eyes and
its hurts so  good dripping from your Lips,
your slick flesh reminded them of our first love,
pleasure.

But Sir,
they don't dress goddesses in sequined pleather,
or airbrush Styrofoam to raise Temple Walls.
The altar they built for you was nothing but a Stage Prop.

They may say
you took it too literally
when your mother taught you to effect from within,
to prove that it was your choice,
that a woman could simple love to Fuck.

They may wonder
if the seeds of your masterpiece
were sown in the trash behind your Apartment.

Six different men,
you said, they wouldn't stop coming.
What they don't realize
is that the seeds may have been spilled in waste,
but you didn't allow Violets to grow there just to watch them Wilt.

Warrior,
you have never Cowered.
You've never been a Victim.
Your Bravery is the purest Kind,
blind.

So Priestess,
don't let them catch your Bouncy Ball Smile
when they Laugh.
When they call you perverted,
scoff at you for risking Life to Disease,
just remember they're Jealous because
you have Lived.

As long as we can watch
our Children be cut down to defend the HomeLand.
as long as we let our lives go Punched away for the next dollar,
as long as differences are grounds for Murder.

then sex,
sure as hell,
is good enough to Die for...

Camila

She Laughs like ThunderClaps

and dances like Hot Mercury,

a hip drip slow poison that slides over your Skin.

I can't take

her high strung Highway

I am not allowed

her dew petal Lips parted over my Sleeping Chest.

Her Muscles, taut with the weight of me,

are not Mine.

Her wanderer's long and short strokes

are not Mine.

Her quick to Unclothe and slow to re-robe

are not Mine.

As much as I might will it,

her wide spread salutary thighs are not Mine.

I use her,

openly.

To the beckon of my Two Fingers,

she comes to me on all Fours,

slow wound round my Wrist and lit loose like Bottle Rockets,

to spit Hot fury all down my Palm

Is this DEATH?

Someone Died Today



Is Death a New Beginning?
When the Body Dies, is
Your Soul still Here with me?
I am Alone Now
Never going to
Be Safe Again
Things will Never be
 the Same
Take Flight


"Something in the Air"
"Grabs a grip on his Hand
as the Rain puts a
Tear in My Eye"

I'm on my Knees
Begging for some type of Repentance

My Friend is Gone
My Soul is Lost
My Heart is Broken
I Miss you
Already

Your Gypsy Heart is Free
I'm next. \
No worries

Apple

When she Offers you that Dangerous pleasure,
the kind the pretends you don't owe each other anything
accept.

Accept,
or she'll realize that she's been walking in your shadow all along.
Accept,
or we'll say that you are no Man.
Accept,
you'll regret it either way.


Perhaps she is your Devil,
dangling dirty panties like collectibles,
but you were Born to undress mysteries,
and she was born to teach us how to be Still.

Though,
you will never know her Nudity
and she will Never stop vibrating.

Madame Butterfly

The Summer breeze is gone

The Friendly Neighbor has Turned on the Heat and Closed the Windows

It's Rude to Stare Anyways

My Door is Halfway Open

The Cold Winter is approaching

Approaching is the Guilt

Approachng is the Fear

Approaching is the Holidays spent Alone

Approaching is the Still Outside

No causee for "Alarm"

The Devils is giving Handouts this Fall

The Cold Bed Awaiting

everynight

The Tears of Another Birthday Passing

It will pour down

The Soul ages as the Body Decomposes

Interrupting yourself in a City that has no Meaning

Desperately waiting for Sleep

Endless Sleep

Starring across a frozen River

A River Filled with Lost Memories

Don't pity a Soul that is Over-Grown and Lost

Take a Picture

Just to Burn it all over again

Weddings

Funerals

Births

Crying

Laughing

Smiling

Drunken Nights

Stupid Texts

Idiotic Calls to your Desperate Mother

Cancer Sticks in the Snow

Colds

Hospitals

Cancer

Op

Funerals

Be ready for the Fall

Its waiting for You

These are the Secrets on My Pillow.....

"Its 12 days before Christmas. Visions of chestnuts roasting on an open Fire, of sleigh bells glistening, of furtive kisses under the mistletoe are dancing through my head. But I am home in Chicago, alone, facing the prospect of spending the holidays in cold weather with a blanket and a special no one. Just when I resign myself to the West of Chicago, an overseas phone call from Her brings tidings of comfort and joy and.. alas..an invitation to share the season's festivities with Dear friends, Italian style. Before anyone can change her mind, I am on a plane to bell'Italia, gloating over my good fortune amid fawning flight attendants with Mediterranean accents and names like Marco, Aldo, Ettore, and Luca. Traveling sola, I have never had it so good. The magazines piled on the empty seat next to me go undisturbed and forgotten, as the boys of flight 268 entertain me with their antics- slipping me slices of sweet panettone from first class, puffing up one more pillow behind my head- and with stories of their lives in Rome, Piacenza, Verona. I, in turn, talk about my year spend in Brussels.
"Why don't you move to Italy?" one of them asks, after listening to me longing for extended national holidays, buffalo, motz, and public displays of uncensored passion.
"Ah, but what would I do?" I say.
His response, instantaneous: "Fai principessa." Be a princess.
The Italian Male's charms and attentions are nothing new to me. I know that the simple fact that I am unaccompanied young woman impels every Italian male, who feels obliged by hormones and national honor, to shower me with admiration usually reserved for the modern Diva. But all the awareness in the world, and all my experience with men, can't make me immune to their designs. I lower my head to conceal my blush but keep in my line of vision two sets of eyes, one the color of warm walnut, the other a combustible smoky gray. By now, I've got a permanent pair of companions- the flight attendant foursome taking turns in a mid-cap flight game of Let us Entertain You- occupying the empty space behind my seat, which is positioned just in front of the aircraft's midsection emergency exit. First Mario and Luca, then Mario and Ettore, now Luca and Aldo with their lounging limbs strewn out around my head, by my side, atop my armrest.
"Like a sneaky Fox."
Goose bumps are springing up on my arms. Goose bumps!
I feel my cheeks burn. It's a surge of blood that comes less out of embarrassment than from the fire smoldering between my legs. I have lost my knack for repartee and find myself uncharacteristically without words, coming to an unspoken understanding as I hold Luca's suggestive stare, just before he breaks away to business class. The air underneath the blanket spread across my lap feels hot. Luca's hand is acting like a branding iron sizzling through my skirt. My row companion, the woman who occupied the aisle seat upon takeoff, moved to the back of the plane hours ago to join her friend. From the window seat, Luca has shifted his torso to face me, melting in the middle seat. I catch a sudden whiff of his cologne. Intoxicated by his smell, I kiss him full on the mouth. His tongue presses hard against mine, then slides across it, over and under, over and under in a slow, rhythmic dance that makes my cunt contract. He takes my lower lip in between his teeth and I feel my clit twitter out of control. I squirm in my seat, hoping the movement will drive His hand up to my nest. In a flash, his hand is there, his first, middle, and thumb hooks itself onto my waistband and tugs down. I am hoping her notices what I forgot to place under that skirt this morning. Silly me.
I take his face in my hands, pressing his cheeks so that his lips become round and full between mine. He pushes his fingers down to me and into the wet of me. I suck hard on his tongue. He sucks his fingers and then lets me take a turn on them. We are all mouth and face and fingers, lapping, inhaling, nipping, gnawing.........


The Door is Open...To be continued