Hidden away in the destitute village are pockets of things worth traveling for. Things worth looking for behind closed doors which can be opened if one possesses the means. Things such as beautiful girls with flowers in their hair, their skin an exotic golden brown unlike the pale blonde princesses of your own childhood. Things such as new flavors and textures of food, such as the a smiles of the brothers and fathers of the beautiful girls, who are neither naive of your intentions for the little girls, nor disapproving.


Power plays in a cabin faintly aglow with orange light in the snow. Intrigue and politics of an animal called human, murder as the snow melts, new generations born, on their way in the ecstasy of youth, and dead again under the eye of the sun rising and falling. You may come across a man who inhabits the cabin in your journeys. He may be out there on the perimeter of the property to gather wood for the fire, and by chance you two may lock eyes. Know that whatever notion you have of his existence is false. Know that you should be glad not to be a part of his world, and that there is no way of relating to him anyway. When your back is turned and you walk away, the way you leave the cabin, so will the cabin remain for hundreds of years hence. You may come back again in three centuries and find a very similar looking man, or perhaps a completely different man, but a man none the less, the wretched stench of humans will never leave that damned cabin.

Present your neck to me for consideration.
I see you, girl who shows up at parties alone dressed like a doll.
You are well on your way, you hone your fashion sense, and now the girls you want to be look at you as one of them.
You get a tattoo on your shoulder.

You let the love of the women you imitate in.
You let yourself contemplate what kind of boyfriend you would like to have.
The choice is obvious, the kind with a beard and little tattoos here and there. Bad skin. You put off getting one for now.
You consider the love of other types of men, little do you know how much the love of a man can change you.

You come before me now with your wealth of knowledge, you have forgotten that you which wandered the streets like the echo of a lone trumpet in the night, you hate that you. You have divorced yourself of her.
You let my gaze in like you will let my tongue in.
The way you move, which is really a dance, the way you talk which is a song - it is all good and well.
Now present your neck for consideration.

My Darling DNA

She puts her tongue in the space between her teeth, she relishes the feeling of fabric in her fingers and a man's gaze is something like the sun's rays to her.

In my strange dream last night she shrinks before my eyes, she ages backwards.

She is twenty three in the coffee shop. Her eyes don't dart around, they look on steadily in the context of her love life, which is now so much better than her college years. My professional lover whose new happiness, which begins at her clitoris and ends in her anus, embues everything that she does.

She is sixteen in the front seat, at the beach. She would like to introduce you to her friend the cervix. Quite mysterious and hard to reach, it's a dark skinned man with a funny accent, it's eastern Philosophy.

She's drunk on the power of her growing breasts. Lying eyes closed on the sand, her ecstasy rides the waves.

She's a little girl now, doddelling around her bed, her hand always on something sturdy so she does not fall. Her stare is ignorant. Her voice is something she will mimic in her 30s. She has not been plucked like a dandelion from the field by the stares of men yet, she has learned no lessons of power.

My darling DNA. My disciple who has not learned to imitate what I want her to be.

The wind of a hummingbird's wing on a flower petal: the child holds a candy sweet with his thumb and forefinger; the tension in the corners of your mouth. (The measure of a loving touch)

The new emptiness

The new emptiness coming on like a movement, like a thunderstorm. All the kids are raving about it. They face it bravely, and having disappeared into it completely, come back out with their sleepy eyed teenage bravado and exclaim the virtues of apathy. I play my mandolin under the olive tree.

sketches

Tattoos, evidence of a burst of joy that joined body and mind in a manic union and made it ok to carve this design, which she can't even tell you the meaning of, into her beautiful skin (the beauty of which she doesn't even understand, all she sees in the mirror is her big nose and graceless hair). How sexy.

Manhattan, a place for people for whom money is no longer a worry. And their frustrations with their trivial other problems (such as love) populate their faces with expressions such as that which can be found on a rich artist's boy toy assistent or a doctor's daughter (her beauty makes her quite deserving of affection, but she doesn't know how selfish she is).

A time when making money was a matter of choice

A time when making money was a matter of choice:
I walked as an old man out of the woods to sell
Those things He placed in my way of living, in the woods
I do not look for things to sell, they look for me
And find me in my forest nook of carven trees.

I walk back home with pockets full of treats
That in their useless charm remind me of a woman's touch.
The touch of a woman was something rare. And bought -
Oh, to only have to give dollars in return for love -
It was something I wouldn't get caught up in.

And now, in times of two lovers (bear with me now)
Gazing into each others eyes and demanding to be loved back,
In these times of her dancing in the pleasure of belonging to me
And in her sleeping with the comfort of owning me, I dream

Of the time I belonged to no body.