“He picks up my scent on his fingers
while he's watching the waitress' legs”
He remembers how
soundless rolling thunder is made.
It plays on his eardrums acutely.
There is an over-large plume feather
lying head to toe, cozy and flat,
licking the surface of her chest
that rises and falls
in support of a deeper tumultuous.
The headwaters ascend
up the wind-chime of her spine.
Churning is the sacred mime
as the invisible but potent provider.
Her walls all reverberate
as if sharing in the chorus.
If there is a soloists in this cathedral,
electricity is the shimmering
as accompaniment.
There are never any echoes,
it’s all origin original hum.
Her muscles do the work
of the celebrative manifest.
The ever-now ignited proceeds.
We are tuning forks
sharing in the same timbre.
Her expanding aura gyrates
in pulsations as waves of light
passing through me.
This mindful philosophy
is on scintillating display.
It can never be captured
by punctuation.
All nouns present,
transgendered as verbs.
Time is a wickless candle burning.
This adventuring light is as erotic
as the intimacy
has a profoundness of a sage.
I blow up this memory often
and freshly eat the falling parts . . .
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