Either everything is sexual, or nothing is. Take this flock of poppies


smoke-green stems brandishing buds the size of green plums, swathed

            in a testicular fur. Even those costumed in the burlesque of red crepe

                         petals have cocks under their skirts, powdered with indigo-black pollen,


staining everything they touch. Either the whole world is New Orleans

            at 3 a.m. and a saxophone like a drill bit or it’s all clinical sunlight and sad

                         elementary school architecture, circa 1962, no broom closets opening into escape


hatches, no cowpokes with globs of sap skewered on hickory sticks. Either

            it’s all New York in 1977, the Pan Am building lit up like a honey hive and erecting

                         itself out of the fog, and one of us is a junkie and one of us is naked under a gold


skirt safety pinned at the waist and the material melts in the rain, either Kinky

            is playing the Lone Star and Earth is the women’s john at the tail end of the bar

                         and the stall doors have been blow-torched at the hinges and dragged away


by horses, either cunnilingus is an ocean salting every alleyway and lifting

            every veil or the French teacher did not masturbate beneath the desk as he taught

                         the subjunctive, and lightning did not cleave the cherry tree and pleasure


its timbers. Either straitjacket, or shock treatment orgasm igniting the dinner theatre,

            the actors cradling and hair-pulling, kissing each other so deep some might call it

                         brain surgery, the wigs slipping, chintz curtains aflame, codpieces bursting


into flower, or what’s left is a book of wet matches, my dear,

            and it’s all been for nothing, for didn’t Jesus say you are either

                         with me or against me, from out of his blossom of bloodshot dust?


 Diane Seuss


June 5, 2020

Night is purer than day; it is better for thinking and loving and dreaming. At night everything is more intense, more true. The echo of words that have been spoken during the day take on a new and deeper meaning.

Elie Wiesel

Day Dream

May 8, 2020

One day people will touch and talk perhaps easily,
And loving be natural as breathing and warm as sunlight,
And people will untie themselves, as string is unknotted,
Unfold and yawn and stretch and spread their fingers,
Unfurl, uncurl like seaweed returned to the sea,
And work will be simple and swift
as a seagull flying,
And play will be casual and quiet
as a seagull settling,
And the clocks will stop, and no one will wonder
or care or notice,
And people will smile without reason,
Even in winter, even in the rain.

Arthur Seymour John Tessimond


December 20, 2019

I have fallen into Friday and
never slept, like deep scars
hanging white the exhaust of
memory. Where long before
dawn, I missed the sheets
on an unmade bed, porcine
of undressed skin stitching
through threads. Fingers felt
to the length of hips where
denim thumbed the black, I
startle the moonrise giving
pale corseted with my window.
But it was easy to memorize
the nothing without feeling for
its wrinkle or smooth, where
I bore the hollow, got skinny in
my limbs stilling a girl from
spinning herself out of shadow.

Lana Bella

Let Birds

November 7, 2019

Eight deer on the slope
in the summer morning mist.
The night sky blue.
Me like a mare let out to pasture.
The Tao does not console me.
I was given the Way
in the milk of childhood.
Breathing it waking and sleeping.
But now there is no amazing smell
of sperm on my thighs,
no spreading it on my stomach
to show pleasure.
I will never give up longing.
I will let my hair stay long.
The rain proclaims these trees,
the trees tell of the sun.
Let birds, let birds.
Let leaf be passion.
Let jaw, let teeth, let tongue be
between us. Let joy.
Let entering. Let rage and calm join.
Let quail come.
Let winter impress you. Let spring.
Allow the ocean to wake in you.
Let the mare in the field
in the summer morning mist
make you whinny. Make you come
to the fence and whinny. Let birds.

Linda Gregg

Her moans

October 24, 2019

As I kissed her, behind her clenched teeth I could hear her moan…

Amy Lowell
The Ring and the Castle

bone-deep security

October 24, 2019

There is a primal reassurance in being touched, in knowing that someone else, someone close to you, wants to be touching you. There is a bone-deep security that goes with the brush of a human hand, a silent, reflex-level affirmation that someone is near, that someone cares.

Jim Butcher
White Night


August 10, 2019

In Wales, they love with abandon.
When a Welsh person loves you,
you’ll finally know your potential.
They are different from the Americans,
who are precarious with their love.
They are different from the English,
who are reserved even when you stand
in front of them, naked,
handing them your heart.
The English give you their love in cups:
here, you’ve been good. drink another glass.
But the Welsh, they drown you
in an ocean of love.
You have their attention, their
consideration. You have all of them.
They aren’t even careful to keep any
for themselves. It seems to me
that only the Welsh know how to love,
how to make someone feel loved.
Because when a Welsh person loves you,
you’ll finally know how it feels
to belong to poetry.

Kamand Kojouri

sweetness of her body

April 6, 2019

… I held her, tasting the warmth and sweetness of her body, salt from the sea – her earlobes tasted of salt…

 Lawrence Durrell


Now I Become Myself

May 24, 2018

Now I become myself. It’s taken
Time, many years and places;
I have been dissolved and shaken,
Worn other people’s faces,
Run madly, as if Time were there,
Terribly old, crying a warning,
“Hurry, you will be dead before – “
(What? Before you reach the morning?
Or the end of the poem is clear?
Or love safe in the walled city?)
Now to stand still, to be here,
Feel my own weight and density!
The black shadow on the paper
Is my hand; the shadow of a word
As thought shapes the shaper
Falls heavy on the page, is heard.
All fuses now, falls into place
From wish to action, word to silence,
My work, my love, my time, my face
Gathered into one intense
Gesture of growing like a plant.
As slowly as the ripening fruit
Fertile, detached, and always spent,
Falls but does not exhaust the root,
So all the poem is, can give,
Grows in me to become the song,
Made so and rooted by love.
Now there is time and Time is young.
O, in this single hour I live
All of myself and do not move.
I, the pursued, who madly ran,
Stand still, stand still, and stop the sun!

May Sarton