choosing to ride late November...

'Baby Faun'
a sculpture by
Nikki Frances ©

sure, I want to leave a mark: 
these are my regards in three parts


(part one, an enthalpy of want)


I steal into her 
neck to shoulder exposed 
she is looking out a window 
in her kitchen, in comfort and regale 
the lighting is ebb pulse candle 
flickers lick her silhouette 
her hands and fingers 
out-stretched beneath 
a round bottom-ed 
stemmed glass...

I imagine she feels me 
leans in instinctively 
still looking out her window 
it is late November 
the typical Sagittarian early night 
the northern hemisphere 
is knifed with cold now
it says, dig into what you want...

I say thank you
and reach for her  
lips with intention 
rooting my digits 
in beg and palm 
I feel for what 
her burning is 
with elegant insistence 
for how she wields me
in delicate ferocity 
with her ripe 
mourned desiccant-ed 
mostly, deciduous sky...

she is turning a wheel 
at a knowledge-d why 
glass has tides, as we all do 
living life too, by holding, releasing...

--------------------------

(part two, the exothermic reactionary soul)


a baby satyr 
sat in ire 
desired a spellbound 
booking sound quiet 
with crystalline shapes 
of nearing Winter, spread
o'er leaves paper brown 
with no bird or bee
northerlies to be
a-digging and raking,  
rasping by teeth 
and nails, where sleep 
begins to break things 
electron empty first 
then core atomic 
molecular heavens 
and hells, will ring bells 
and fill out your forms 
and dance cards, so
please wear proper attire...

it was so sweet, being
wrapped in an enticed thee
you must please forgive me 
for inviting myself in 
I noticed the warm fire  
and the free pour of wine 
a harbor of arbor and womb  
an inside of what can shelter me 
from the death of many knives
as night goes by looming
about a-reaping under
November's Moon 
there, ready to rise 
is an eager blood 
a-tongued in eyes...

She knows Lilith was right all along 
didn't mind being an equal 
when sometimes the greater She be
here is where the poem and I say fuck it 
don't care if the turn wheel you imagine is rusted iron 
or feathers from fowl plucked, a must for lying 
truth is, sometimes we don't care 
to keep by standing or sitting down 
the clown king is an ever hungry mouth 
and a gargoyle sentinel perched
everything that makes us wonder 
if smiling is at all, ever real...

scary sometimes isn't it 
the advance of this progress 
we've realized as met is 
an equal growth with 
a spread of darker still 
a shade fabric fog perhaps 
with too many switches, 
twitches and blink-y things...

I turn off as much as I can...
order warning service 
share a room with
any surprises I can eliminate...
thus increasing the odds 
my chanced-choice-d-control-fetish 
will succeed...
yeah, I'm greedy like that 
wanting your keepsakes soiled...

----------------------------

(part three, where the wild wombs roam)

the baby satyr
within an ire 
of articulation, desires 
wait, wade 
fire and cycles 
raw reaches 
this life's beaches
a death clung to bones 
yes, we have our cages 
that we learn to love 
to become what comforts us
to know our acquiescence(s)
and the thread spooled things 
our soul may rattle 
and drag along its way... 

sometimes when merry 
memory likes to drive 
so slow it's seen as 
sowing your sewn pieces 
the sometimes you 
and the sometimes me 
the sometimes strangers 
we might have caught 
ourselves in league 
or had been called 
on as they, once 
or twice before... 

read the incarnates 
they embrace ornamental-ism 
origin wind and wickedness 
in the rain that comes 
to test and taste the ways 
the nose knows, eyes are only lord 
in mostly two dimensions
for we see, they cannot 
fathom, the between(s)...

the wares were getting interesting 
ashes, where once we carried seeds 
collect in our pockets 
dust for us to scatter before it rains 
this our boots to the ground, bramble and fruition
our intuition, ignition, held breath wear
the places where there are stored stories of you 
explaining how all of you 
are thirsting more time 
and that water knows this too 
and when what a calendar 
should look like is 
going to be you 
to rhyme...

song and interlude 
hunger is a mood

so come find me 
all grown up 
and sated, here 
near where you 
might be already
a scent arrived 
in fated prayer 
preyed alive...



EJR ©