“You ain’t gotta seduce me (Uh uh), 
                                    I’m interested.”

                                                           —  Babyface Ray

You keep sayin I need to loosen up–
well, it’s time to loosen up.

You’ve shown me all I need to know,
all I’ve needed to see, all I’ve needed
to feel
                falling short of all the rest we need
to feel.

                                 you ain’t gotta seduce me  (uh uh)

Come closer.  Lean into this.
Lean into Me (not what others see,
what you can see).
Sometimes the trainer needs
                                                        to be trained.

The whites of those eyes are widening—
the browns expanding—so let me
curl up in the lashes
I have planned…

                                   or better yet, let’s start to forget
all the plans, the planning, all those shared & awkward
tendencies–to drift
somewhere south of cerebral, 
some place lateral & limbic,
leaving literal for rhythmic,
what’s logical for kismet,
                                                simply ride

past anyone’s standards,
                                                your hands, my words,
our brains
on manual—backseat our protestations—
stretching what is rigid into shapes
of greater
flexibility.

                                I’m interested.
                                    
                                                I’m interested.

Let us acknowledge
that handfuls of weeds pulled
from the moist dirt
smell of spring no less
than the sweet magnolias

We do not expect people to be deeply moved by what is not unusual.
That element of tragedy which lies in the very fact of frequency,
has not yet wrought itself into the coarse emotion of mankind; and perhaps
our frames could hardly bear much of it. If we had a keen vision and feeling
of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and
the squirrel’s heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies
on the other side of silence.     –George Eliot, Middlemarch

Near or far away,
Goodbye is also hello; 
A new place to go.

I wonder what you do down in Mexico.
Are you having your Thelma and Louise moment?
The purr of a Thunderbird down a highway.
Pick a moment, doesn’t matter.
Runaway
Fake names.

I trust you.
I don’t know why I do. 
I believe you when you say you’ll come back.
Was I worth coming back for?

The Old Bamboo Pearl Colored Car

Not a single light flashes
on the old car’s dashes
relief washes over me
I can drive worry free
until it’s age catches up
and another sensor malfunctions.

Good Bye LexPoMo until we meet for our 2022 Anthology Coming Out Party!
It has been such a joy to read everyone’s poems and an even bigger joy to be a very small ink stain in this grand group of writers. Thank you everyone!

moonlight              

            mazurka  

woodland              

nocturne                  

            poet  

sylph        

flower crown              

            tulle                        
 
                        lambswool           

                                                   wing

I wish I could write about things that make me happy

But it seems that all I’m able to write about is pain and suffering

So, all I ever write about is you

Two nights ago, I had a dream again

Well, more of a nightmare

Just as I thought I was getting better

You barge back into my psyche

Like a dog, returning to its vomit

Disgusting, but predictable

In my dream, we were on a date

Something I never got to do with you

Something I wanted so badly to do with you

Something I knew I never could do

Even in my dreamworld, something was off

Your caring touch caused my stomach to turn

Your gentle gaze ran a chill of fear down my spine

Your sweet words made my skin crawl

I mean, go figure

All I’ve ever known of you is my fear of you

Of what you could do to me

Or worse

What I would let you do

Take the 29 up through Lovingston.
Water breaks at the ridge.
Deep breaths as they near, clear, and pass
the raccoon. No time to go back.

Such is a life left roadside and blinded.
I weigh what it’s worth again every
end June. Thirty-nine lines under eyes
now defending.

Dark circles from where I’ve narrowed
my gaze. Hands clutch the day like
a trinket I fought for. And, yes, I suppose
I’d rather tiptoe right past

this life that’s been stolen. I’m just the
bandit of what slipped through that night.
But, if you press me, I’ll growl “of course
it’s been worth it!”

Although, I’m not the raccoon,
in hindsight.

Judgment,
upon words I’d
not penned but thought, ripped out
each blooming June, supplanted
by some breath!