happiness is a warm gun (bang bang, shoot shoot)

she's not a girl who misses much.
she's well acquainted
with the touch of the velvet hand
like a lizard on a window pane.

happiness is a warm gun.
happiness is a warm gun, mama
when i hold you in my arms
and i feel my finger on your trigger
i know nobody can do me no harm.

Habakkuk 3

though the fig tree does not bud
and there are no grapes on the vines,
though the olive crop fails
and the fields produce no food,
though there are no sheep in the pen
and no cattle in the stalls,
yet i will rejoice in the lord,
i will be joyful in god my savior

eden

Come!
Cross over the threshold!
Enter the garden!

Play!

Leave your clothes
and fears--
whatever keeps you
from knowing your self
and God.

Feel the velvety leaves
of African violets
nudge your milky
skin.

Shed the darkness
you grasp,
Savor the succulent
fruit of goodness!
Come satisfy your
naked self
with God.

For I am Eve
and you Adam,
We are the raw
roots of the
tree of
life entwining,
reaching deeper
inward
into
Light.

Worship

worship often takes place in the
shower, when the steamy droplets sink
deep into my opened pores and wash
away my tears, and sins.

and prayer! it happens when i look
closely at my naked body, lathering it
with soap made of milk and honey,
and i am naked, and alone,
and quiet for once
before god.

On Inspiration, and Other Things

I gather you to my side like
ten thousand sparrows, your
tigerlily beak chirping loudly
of unknown motives: (unknown
to whom!) In the dawn's lap you flutter,
dance your twiggy jig, lure me with your
beady eyes; between your
carrotted beak you hold a
corpulent creature: your captive,
my inspiration.

Ashland Starbucks, November 3rd

Frosty autumn evening:
the cafe is decorated with
book readers and newspaper
browsers and old companions--
and the rumpled woman in the corner
strikes up a conversation with anyone
who'll listen:
she could've had a hysterectomy,
back when they were popular.

A Fucking Love Poem

Curious hands tangle
in tender curls, a sea
crested upon eyes that
see beauty beyond reason
and know the life that exists
beyond these mountains and
star-crossed skies.

Enveloped in warm
limbs and crazed kisses,
this moment lives
and we are masters of
a lost art-- creating stolen
time and forsaking light.

Fascination abounds, and I
accept your call for innocence
and complication masked by
the raw virtue of love.

This song shall choke me
anon, but now it resonates
against the mighty pines.