I amuse myself with bits
cellophane, fluff caught
in the weave with the clipartguitar
on the shell of an armadillo,
graphics from Tuesdays forecast.
run out of images, used up the erotic
exploits of the gods. Anatomy limits
possibilities for penetration and thread
is not dear.
slow week: a piece on pangs
of drowning in black and white, the latest
though cool space speculums dont come
on clotha sketch of men astride
inspired by a horse race in Dubai,
footstool embroidery for William
Satan, a birthday whim
the suggestion of mutual friends.
Its easy to succumb to stasis,
inaction, shuttle dropped to the floor,
my favorite cagey dodge about
hole in aboutness when its all about
the loom, defunct.
a bit with BillyI must admit
I like his type, shaving cream daddy
pick me up, put
my lips to his taut cheekbone. I miss
odd balance of a body
on another body stretched and resting,
sleeping on a slight incline
you didnt sense when you pitched the tent.
have it good.
All the talk about erotics
the visual, but gaze all you like,
this patchwork arrogance remains
scene of legs
over shoulders, diaper-change style.
last time the tapestry of ravish
actually got seen
when the women saw the Resurrection,
the tanned ankles of Jesus,
on and ringed in their grips,
Jesus on the road to the Emmys, decked out
strolling between sex and the thought of sex.
Theres still the fans,
fantasy of a fair share of art in punishment.
Mail from one Wanda who suggests
buffeted souls in lust
are served up buffet-style with hunks of parmigiana.
of the track star from Mineola Prep who arrives
last at the Arctic Circle,
strips, and pumps the air with pride.
woman in Kissimmee says she killed
a giant spider behind her toilet bowl
to watch in horror while its body released
a thousand offspring,
that poured to the corners while the mama
weave them in for lack
of better options, tangents, fields of play
take my mind off the rasp
that sounds, soulless and dry,
I strum my legs together like a lyre.