Her tender lips
kiss
Jack Daniels
on the rocks;
reward succulence in red
to Glencairn Glass.
Djarum Black
escapes
from her plump pucker;
lends
sensuality to morning air.
My woman,
Donna,
is dead
to the world.
Moon
bathes her in silver
as the morning sun
frolics
to catch her glimpse.
Waking up, I fiddle with the remote.
Television feeds me emptiness
via satellites. The weather girl
in her sexy white dress tells me
it's cold - will snow along I-275.
She moves from coast to coast
with the assiduity of an albatross.
I miss the buzz and put Trane
to thoughts - jazz is like floating
on clouds in clear blue sky.
Roses I planted last spring
lie shrouded - defeated by snow
from heaven. How powerless I am!
Through the haze I see
when I was seven:
I chased butterflies and rainbows;
there were many picnics then.
I enjoyed runs along the creek
with limited friendship.
There were neither battles to win
nor immortality to achieve -
there was joy in abundance
which drowned me and now,
it's wine in ornamental chalice.
Yes, wine in ornamental chalice!
Mother was agitated all morning;
awaited my return.
She spilled salt and pepper on table
and served egg on a cloud for lunch.
Coffee savored the table,
spoons jingled on the ground,
apple pie tasted like mutton -
titillated Butcher's mound.
Fats Waller beamed from the album cover;
mother silenced him with a wink.
My father signaled: disappear;
she definitely stopped to think.
Lee Wiley looped in her head:
"Once in a while, will you give just
one little thought to me...";
she cleared snow off driveway -
weaved a shoveled tapestry.
Bare boughs of winter trees
imitated her arms spread wide.
She rehearsed embraces and squeezes,
clinging on her tethered pride.
Then...
From a distance, flashed red and white;
her heart skipped a beat.
She felt this could be the end -
her joy beating the retreat.
The clergyman stepped out,
heralding my return.
Mother tempestuously broke down
to mourn my end.
Flickering polka dots
illuminate my path
through the aspen boulevard.
Time tides me up an
elusive realm fraught
with the necessities
of mundane existence.
Near the end,
I stop to watch
what's left behind.
There's no one except
my mother in tears,
helplessly lamenting
over my death - sans
love and prayer.
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Mature content. Reader's discretion is advised.
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Z loves to sip coffee in Dixie cup.
(She loves it, I know).
Says with nostalgia that she and her
Father made Dixie phones when she was four
and talked for hours.
'What conversation?', I ask.
Z blushes.
Pouts.
Grins.
Guffaws.
'You interested in phoney baloney,
you motherf**ker?
I ain't have no phone cojones',
admits the bitch.
She sticks out her pierced tongue,
licks my ear, says,
'Well, sweet conversation!'
Z recollects Cecchi with friends
(her Father's, of course),
how it tasted like spicy lavender
on her eighth birthday when she
licked it off El's fingers.
'Smother me!', she moans, pretends to come.
I know this whore; she feigns orgasm
even at a rudimentary touch.
At fourteen, she has an exquisite
taste for love and wine -
specially red.
Her adolescence is juvenile -
'I see blue beyond thick black clouds
when we make love', she adds with a
wink. She means it, I reckon.
She is too 'debaucharized' to lie now -
too fatigued and undone.
Z loves her Father
(like a daughter).
He loves her too.
The little girl dreams of chasing
rainbows and kites with him - I can read
her face as she lies still beneath me.
Poor soul!
She seems elusive to the pitter-patter
of rain too...it's not prevarication,
as I often misconstrue.
Her head aches from flowery scents
and Mozart. She often complains.
Her single song is grief -
plaintive, peeved.
She asserts,'I love my father
with all my heart.'
'If only love was mutual', I sadly sigh.
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