Written: Tuesday, April 21, 2009.

Sara Stool

Making love on the dewy blooms was a quiet event. Her blouse became the wind's left arm and I bound myself to her like the iron design of a horse's shoe. Crystalline, her eyes made moderate advances. The powdery fastening of her bra failed swiftly and my hand, moist with indecision, clamored about her tawny waist. These coral lips poured upon me kisses, pale and pure; these freckled shoulders secured a crevasse in the weeds and held fast to her strong intention. And it is with intention that I secured her fast into the Earth.

So intricately weaved is the human figure, bones to meat and flesh. Not but today have I ever felt so passionately for her, my darling, and not with precedent. She is a bead of rain in a ravished globe of thievery; a morning glory's pastel delightfulness gleams about her navel, periphery built in peachy fuzz. Thick, latent, strawberry tresses deviate from her peaky brow and collect exclamatory remarks on the edge of her bosom.

The peculiar rest in unbridled rhythm and stagnation of her breath did not distress me. Instead, my hands grew warm and played with her tenderly shifting textures. “Pose for me, my love, in a plume of lavender, a mosaic of rapidly feasting flora and fauna, and my heart, ethereal, will beat eternally in your favor.”

A woman's shampoo smells of sweet nothings and harmless infatuations, the rare crimson dyes of blank Hallmark envelopes. Yesterday, these soft curls bounced backwardly about her shoulders; now upon the greenery, they weave in and out of beaky blades like night-crawlers. Her name is Sara, Sara Stool, and she lives about these hills like a wildflower.

"Hen"

And a pomegranate seed could not produce more laughter,
your feet protrude nicely from beneath the table and I notice
the spontaneous overflow of impatient freckles rising like braille
from your intricate flesh - fall out from pretenses!
Squelch taste, budding like a rosy fern across a balcony railing,
wailing like a powdered hen tossing out her nest.

"...you're gonna kick off before you even get half through."

"Assembly"

Lingering like the loathed stench of
an unaltered land-fill, you quench
your thirst by the sweet sweat
beading around my ears,
trapped in the crevasses around
my unemployed chin, slithering
relentlessly about the bones at
it's basin, the collared rim of my
face; the onyx dilation of your eye
diverts my attention, there is
suitable interest in your grin,
a devious and slightly nefarious thing
that disperses throughout me like
a cancerous assembly of freckles,
elements by which you entertain your
guest, your audience of one, me.

"Mother"

There, by the ravaged porte-clef,
a nesting mother perches;
her eight limbs weaving wooly warmth
for her young.
The chambers of her heart,
more frail than the smallest of beads,
whisper incantations,
savory lullabies,
luckless soliloquies.
And the flies do not know that their
fate is to feed this worn-out parent,
sitting silent and still long enough
that her prickly feet collect
dusty particles from the air; but,
fleeing from the Dusk's decent
upon the Earth, scouring for the
nearest, warmest pillow to rest upon,
ensomeille and undisturbed,
the flies will fall to fate,
throw themselves willingly at the
speckled spit-glossed fabric,
entabgle limb and lung alike
and stray from life like the
fantastical phantoms that remain
after their immolation to the mother,
guardian of a thousand unborn,
cellular imitations -
encapsulations.

"Oblong"

Icicle lights, like stethoscopes stretched keenly
over the shoulder of a small child, dribble
from porch rails, dangle over stairways,
eyebrows furrowed more so than the dirty
crevasse of an eighty-year-old crippled man.

The skyline is oblong, elliptical, like our pupils,
desperate to be touched by the starry sentences
that slither from fingertips, silvery threads
entrenched, immersed, in such impracticality.

"Not in photographs"

Justice cannot be found in photographs
or the frail skin of a shallow pool of water;
feeble whites wade outside of circular,
aquamarine queries stapled to a pensive,
grey mind, matter of marble-like nostalgia,
cold, quiet, and contemporary, with a black
spectacle, speck, like a pin-head, the pinnacle
of the entirety of the softly, slowly, rising
sun that rests sweetly behind your smile.

"Flowers"

Petals -
frail, fleshy, fibrous -
flee from pastoral landscapes,
invade urban daydreams
and crawl, fists clenched,
down city streets;
climb, teeth gritted, through
piles of bricks and
dust, scaling silent towers,
triumphant collections
of glass and metal,
and scurry upward between
cracks like the irregular
movement of an
upset bowel.

"Migraine"

The lighting is that of small, frail frames
of shimmering insects, oxygen billowing like
smoky illustrations of fauvist figures
dissipating in a lavish field of flowery filigree
within an apiculate fever of an exalting exhale.
In the corner, peevish prattle articulates a
mild migraine of meandering widgets.
Smoking cigarettes, the treeline seems
to wobble feebly in the dusky evening air;
all the while, the lighting does not sway or
change and the fauvist fever of your rage
descends the staircase of an illusory chatter.

"... you will not have died in vain. You will have entertained us."

"Fruit"

Yesterday,
I had pineapple,
tiny cubes of
pale pigmented
shreds of tropical
flesh in the palm
of my hand,
in the corner
of my mouth,
in the 'tweens
of my teeth;
and there is
pineapple
on the counter
still, where
you squint
as you wake,
where we twinge
as we stir
our own flesh
into movement,
like stale potato
chips, not
quite correctly,
and bring our
toes to the
linoleum surface
of yesterday's
passionate
eventfulness
that began
for the likes
of fruit.

"A story in twelve parts, twelve stories."

You had a long day; after
stretching out in front of the fireplace,
you began telling the tales.
And you revealed it all to me in the most
queer and spectacular events.

It was like gnawing on a crooked
door hinge, you said, "no".
But all I remember is the palm of your hand
brushing over the tear that waded out into the
dangerous beaches of my cheek.

I sat down and said, "I'm sorry".
But, it was far too late.
The stars gaped down in awe and amusement,
giggling at what little pride I had left and
announced that they soon would steal that as well.

Like butterbeans, your sweet skin reflected
morsels of light like liquidy remnants of
some thin, god-like smile.
You know what I mean?
Corks rang out.
Bells chimed.
You were made just in time.

There were socks on the bed,
two pairs intermingling with the effects
of our passionate embrace.

It was all so pleasing to me.
You turned and said, "Would you - "
and I said, "Certainly."

But beyond bath tissue, we never spoke.
I always wondered why we lived in the same home.
Smoking, eating, dreaming under the same
roof when all that mattered was what
maintained the absence of
shit stains on the living room sofa.

Oranges rolled out of lipped bowls
faster than you could piss. There were days
that I would wet myself imagining that you
could go without the impairment of hesitation.

Our toes melted together like ice cubes after
we made love the first time, inseperable
spindles of pure neurotic passion
in two tiny, teenage structures.

Out front, there was a license plate that read,
"A27X4G" and it meant nothing to me. So,
when you paid three bucks to let a shark eat
it for breakfast, what the fuck did I care?

I reached out and touched your penis as
you slept, the edge of your thigh cold with the
illusion of innocence as you waited, war-like,
to determine whether I would wake you.

"Well, it's about damn time!" I said, buttoning the
last button on the sleeve of your shirt. "Only
teenage girls take larger amounts of time
to get dressed for a supper out."
You smacked my butt. We kissed and hurried
out the front door hand-in-hand.

"The Wheat Blossom"

You sit like a lantern
on the stoop -
shadowed by the rectangular
well of walls,
beading like a frosted glass
in the hellish warmth.

You appear like a star -
so very far away
but,
I can see fragments of you
at night
when no one else can.

You leap like a kitchen stove -
coiled tight
until
the very moment that
you intend to strike.

You are like fresh tears
brought on
by an early morning yawn
after a long,
lovely night.

You belong like a wheat blossom -
untameable, untouchable;
descending like a late
afternoon drizzle,
unkept, unruly, undone,
and yet so magnificent.