Sex is not a whore

a sexual woman
is not your whore
her desires
do not diminish her heart

your cock is not her god
your kisses not angels

desire washes over her
but it doesn't drag her humanity
out to sea
rather it washes her clean
of all the ambiguity
the rigid starch
formality
of playing at not wanting
what every human wants

but her desire
does not make her
your whore, your mistress, your slut.

be joyful of the sexual woman
revel in the privilege of her favors
respect the enormity of her heart

I waited all night
for the sound of your voice
but met only silence

it waited for me
hovering about my room
like some perturbed ghost
knocking over my things
rooting through the closets of my heart
creating a mess of my emotions.

My phone sits perched on my pillow
like a blackbird
it holds all my dreams
but it will not sing tonight.

for a moment
when you kissed me
I dreamed we had a future
but then I woke to find you
with your arms around another

Paper over the pain

paper over the pain

with sex

layers of orgasm

sticky

white

hardening

like plaster. 

but when I stretch

the cracks 

form

first small

rivers of doubt

then

wide caverns of pain

neither your touch

nor your kiss

can put me right again

until you agree 

to build a real foundation.

Last year on the sand

a year ago
they took our picture
before our story had really begun
back when you touched me in public
before you I begged you to hurt me
when I knew where I stood with you

before I was lost
in the ocean
of your eyes
their storms and their swells
when the sea was calm
and I walked along the beach

safe from the weatherman
who lives in my head
and re-reads the charts
looking for patterns
and meaning
when really
it is just nature at work

Staring out the window of the car.

No matter
what I say
my face betrays my heart
like a double agent
playing a triple.

In the outfield,
I am watching
waiting for your play.

Only happy in our games,
as your slave
a wholly owned subsidiary
of all of your possessions.

Lost in the ruble
of your home
amongst the books and papers
you constantly seek to escape

running from all that is real,
imagined,
between us

and it is these thoughts which plague me
as I stare out the window of my car
 you ask me, familiar
"What?"

Chair (in progress)

I have an old chair

comfortable but beaten down

when I bought it

I said to myself

"this chair is only temporary"

so it doesn't matter

that its 

the wrong color

(matching nothing in my home)

the wrong fabric

"why did I pick that pattern?"

"after all its only temporary,"I told myself as I passed it on my way to the kitchen.

Day after day

I watched T.V., read books, stared out the window

all from my temporary chair

it became a piece of my life

its color a statement of my independence

"not everything has to match"

its fabric, soft, inviting, 

with an intriguing pattern that occupied my eyes while I lost my thoughts.

Now, I claim suzerainty 

and no one else may sit there.

I adore this chair 

and think I shall never give it up.