Saturday, June 13, 2020

My Imaginary European Friends II

An arrow shot into the Sun
above sky blue seas---
We swam and kissed clean
our salty skin.
Méta's tan arms and face,
dark hair stroked by breeze,
hoop earrings swinging in time,
yellow floral top sans bra
foregrounding an erect nipple...
Her eyes penetrated mine.
We eclipsed the Sun,
outstripping curtained worlds.
Our eyes always entwined
but aware of everything else
as secondary, a backdrop to
always being inside each other.
Her image on dark glass
a better shade than Helen's---
never inspiring bloodbaths,
just carnal immersion.




Friday, June 12, 2020

My Imaginary European Friends I

First place must be given to the State Dept
funded scholar in Madrid, gracious as she's severe.
Stern and glorious face, so beautiful it's
terrifying. Says everything and still shushes
with the mystery of all beauty.
Her mother of Ancient Prussian Nobility,
father a wealthy Mediterranean merchant.
She picked up chain smoking and
self doubt from him, hauteur and
spontaneous grace from her. We fell
out taking opposing sides
when a celebrity mocked
the Fascist granddaughter
of a dead Fascist.
She had the misfortune of knowing
everything(Faith) and valuing nothing(God)---
including herself who, she'd always say,
"Fell short."
Her mother adored Rilke. His precious
letters to Prussian Noblewomen, redolent
with flattery and polished sentiments, gave
her immense pleasure. Every time I
eliminated or passed gas, regardless of
what orifice issued from, I knew our
tenuous bond would sunder. 
She rarely talked about her father. Save
for reservations about smoking, which
she shrugged off as a "Catholic thing".
I thought of my habits and...
I miss her more than I fear her disapproval.


Saturday, June 06, 2020

De Natura Kirsten

To Mnemosyne

Hair blonde April sunshine,
neck's down velvet lamb's-ear...
Eyes clear Aegean noon,
laughter blessed birdsong...
Smile a Parian quarry.

Her kiss a pleasant Sirocco,
sweet as pink Moscato.

Verbose but verbless strokes...

Clauses and similitude mount me
feral as her thighs gripped my hips.




Thursday, June 04, 2020

Raysun d'Être


In this Duchy of Downpours
the Sun is an ideal.
It shines bright when we close eyes,
blinds keen as first kisses.

The well lit streets shine up
and shade damp clothes dull.
The sky's frown is shunned
as crowds seek shelter
in dry oases of gold light
and white décor.