Toe upon toe, a snowing flesh,
A gold of lemon, root and rind,
She sifts in sunlight down the stairs
With nothing on. Nor on her mind.
We spy beneath the banister
A constant thresh of thigh on thigh.
Her lips imprint the swinging air
That parts to let her parts go by.
One-woman waterfall, she wears
Her slow descent like a long cape
And pausing, on the final stair
Collects her motions into shape.
X. J. Kennedy
Tuesday, October 30
Thursday, October 18
For the Artist Who Paints My Balls Fifty Shades of Blue
Just when I get some steam built, when I'm feeling
like an architect of steam, ready to vaporize
inside you, you say slow down, which isn't easy.
There are no power brakes in the genitals,
no runaway boner ramps. I flop onto my back.
The blood marches single-file down the long,
winding staircase of my cock, like an emergency
evacuation of the Washington Monument
during the height of tourist season. My testicles
ache like a boxer's punching bag. I wish a bell
would ding, and a bald Italian guy with ice packs
and smelling salts would hop into the ring
of our desire and give me a pep talk, remind me
to work on the clitoris, like the ribs of Apollo Creed.
Jeffrey McDaniel
like an architect of steam, ready to vaporize
inside you, you say slow down, which isn't easy.
There are no power brakes in the genitals,
no runaway boner ramps. I flop onto my back.
The blood marches single-file down the long,
winding staircase of my cock, like an emergency
evacuation of the Washington Monument
during the height of tourist season. My testicles
ache like a boxer's punching bag. I wish a bell
would ding, and a bald Italian guy with ice packs
and smelling salts would hop into the ring
of our desire and give me a pep talk, remind me
to work on the clitoris, like the ribs of Apollo Creed.
Jeffrey McDaniel
Monday, October 8
Don't Go Far Off, Not Even For A Day
Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --
because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.
Don't leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.
Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,
because in that moment you'll have gone so far
I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?
Pablo Neruda
because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.
Don't leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.
Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,
because in that moment you'll have gone so far
I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?
Pablo Neruda
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