He wanted to worship her,
not destroy their lives.
The line of separation
was as thing
as a liar’s promise.
He had precariously balanced
along the edge
for years,
hiding a secret desire
to stumble and plummet.
One day,
he closed his eyes,
executed a lover’s dismount,
giving no thought at all
as to whether
he could stick the landing.
Copyright 2017
He speaks the lost language
of Tierra del Fuego,
wearts t-shirts woven
from the sweet dreams
of sinners.
There is power to his stride,
he harbors dynamite
in his muscles,
grace to his step
as the fuse offers salvation.
He rinses his mouth
with unabashed flirtation,
coating each spoken word
with appealing inuendo.
Men want to be him.
Women want to have him.
But he is a warrior of conquest,
collecting hearts like scalps
in a box under the bed.
Copyright 2017
He dips his tongue in henna,
whispers poetry all over her skin.
Patterns of his prose
spread like intricate lace:
In the soft hollow of her neck,
the forgiving valley of her bent elbow
the delicate skin,
more receptive than the finest paper,
in the back of her knee
He writes volumes,
stealing letters from unknown alphabets
when he runs out of words.
Copyright 2017
Ingredients:
1/4 tsp. – singed ashes from a comet’s tail
1 oz. – powdered ink from an octopus’ diary
1 pinch – quarter notes (evaporated) from a Magyar love ballad
1/2 cup – distilled vapors of cactus tears
After bathing the above in the whispers of lovers, add the following:
1 jigger – Moravian monk pure bourbon
2 oz. – Creme de Nova, fifty proof
Place all of the above in a blender until a halo appears.
Pour slowly over two cubes of ice stolen from the soul of a newly-calved glacier.
Best served under the light of a waning moon.
Copyright 2017
He sits in a beach chair,
on the fire escape balcony,
the sweltering heat
encasing him in amber.
At his feet sits a seedling,
ghostlike, ethereal,
thriving in a yogurt cup
filled with soil of Babylon.
He sings lullabies of anguish,
in cryptic lyrics of despair,
positions a dented watering can
to catch his monsoon of tears.
“Hope is not the thing with feathers,”
he mumbles out to no one,
rotating the fragile seedling
in its worship of the sun.
“Hope is a seedling,
just barely visible,
watered in sorrow,
exposed to the light.”
Copyright 2017
I steal the words
right out of your mouth,
place them
between my own lips.
The air
never had a chance
to solidify them
into sound.
Neither of us
expected this.
Both of us cared.
The heat of your body
exhaled a shroud
around each syllable
and I can taste
your poetry
long after the swallow.
Copyright 2017
Home Boy is the Thursday night bartender at Thirsty Ben’s.
Buddha arrives at 8:08,
not one minute earlier or later.
He has a thing for the number eight,
upended infinity begging for a reprieve.
The beer and wings crowd has actually noticed,
leaving the end stool perpetually open.
But only on Thursdays, the night of the Buddha.
Neighborhood ritual is highly respected.
At exactly 8:08, the door to Ben’s opens,
the sea of testosterone parts for the prophet.
Buddha wears black Converse, cargo shorts, a t-shirt,
retro Magic Eight Ball silkscreened on front.
Home Boy starts the blender,
adds opinion, skewered fact,
mixes a cocktail of convolution:
politics, philosophy, religion,
with a finishing jigger of racy hood gossip.
A garnish of ego tops off the drink.
Buddha is offered this signature cocktail,
though he always declines,
yet pays just the same.
Home Boy sighs and murmurs:
“Just the usual then,”
retrieving the sake off the top shelf,
adding just one ice cube,
clear as the truth,
strong in its pleasure,
so like the man.
Copyright 2017
He sat there
cross-legged on the dining room floor,
devouring every move
as if it were new.
She sat
in the kitchen,
on a lone folding chair,
bathed in the moonlight, cello at her feet.
Clad only in a white slip,
no jewelry,
no shoes,
she unloosed her hair,
set herself free.
He forgot
how to breathe,
anticipating the moment,
for this was the way
it always began.
Cradling the cello,
between open knees,
she caressed the strings,
disappeared in herself.
Eyes closed tightly,
she became his stranger,
the look on her face
a painful reminder.
He arose
from the floor,
stood transfixed behind her,
his breath
on her neck
a reminder of presence.
Placing a hand
on the small of her back,
an open palm
on the face of the cello,
he held her somewhere
between body and sound.
And that’s where he lived,
on the edge of all silence,
though she made him believe
he could always hear her.
Copyright 2017
Using tweezers and a magnifying glass,
he gingerly places another angel
on the head of a pin.
He has refined his technique
of pinching the wings together
in order to avoid damage
to the heavenly bodies.
So what if a halo
is lost in the process?
It just breaks the focus
of clear lines anyway.
And clean lines are imperative
in dance.
He is up to five angels now,
a new world record.
He presses play
and “Rich Man’s Frug”
from “Sweet Charity”
saturates the paneled workshop.
The angels are flawless,
every movement,
every step,
a direct channel
to Fosse’s choreography,
all delicately performed
under the gigantic blue eye.
Tomorrow
he will try for six angels,
dancing to Twyla’s
“Push Comes To Shove.”
Copyright 2017
Find the shoebox that housed Mary Magdalene’s black stilettos.
Ditch the pumps before the apostles arrive.
Keep the box.
Take Salvador Dali out for a night of cheap beer and wings
then bring him back to your apartment.
Gift him a small plastic tray of cake watercolors
and a paintbrush dipped in sweat.
Set him loose on the shoebox.
Maintain a constant loop of Jimi Hendrix on the stereo,
ideally at 80 decibels, no higher or lower.
Hail a cab for Dali and send him packing
when the imagery becomes frightening.
Line the box with tissue paper woven from irrelevant ideas,
the more erratic the better.
Sharpen an exacto knife on Satan’s top molars,
being sure to pay the devil his due.
Slice out the longest-bodied noun
on page 214 of the Oxford English Dictionary, pre-1971,
careful to openly sing its praises
until the word is safely ensconced in the box.
Continue to flip through the lexicon
until a hyperactive verb vaults out.
Grab it immediately by the tail,
careful not to harm any soft vowels.
Dump it inside the box.
The noun will exert a calming influence.
Gentle humming will ensue.
Pay no attention.
Before securing the lid,
add a drop of cheap bourbon
and the dead ashes of a French cigarette.
Tie the box securely with a string of expletives
and escort the package
to a pre-determined coffee-house.
Find a secluded table in the back
and set the trap.
He had kidnapped over thirty-six poets
using this method
but never once received any ransom.
Copyright 2017
Donna Dakota in Word 