the hard full moon

the hard full moon threw shadows to the ground and if they tried to move

it kicked them in the ribs and face until they submitted

and lie still

beneath this hewed black and white glare

disoriented by sips of wine and hashish

very slowly he disrobed her

deliberately relishing her exquisiteness

her shape her rounds and hollows and curves

he gently rolled her over onto her belly

her willingness holy

and knotted her elbows with white jute

cinching them as one  and wound the strand and knotted it down to her ethereal 

wrists

with her shoulders pulled back her breasts swelled beneath her like jealous half 

melons against the cool suspecting earth and warmed blades of grass

cupping her cheek in his palm he turned her head and caressing her ear

with his lips he whispered to her to bend her knees

she submitted

he drew the strand through the cuffs of her blue vein wrists and ran it taut

up between her ankles and looped them together in dizzy close figure-eights

then ran the jute down her calf to the inside of her knees

one leg at a time

parting her thighs gently and holding them fast

with the web running up and over her shoulders and forming a halter where her 

elbows were joined

when this intricate framework was fashioned

he adorned the jute with small symmetric knots

titillating rondelles or baguettes to accent the dazzling gem her ivory body had 

become

under his full eye

and the moons

2233,  Sunday,  29  10. 12

Id seen that damn cat run across her skull too many times for her own good

and each fuckin time

despite the bone flint picked out by its claws gripped and running

she thought its hurtling body preternaturally determined her next great thing

ya gonna fight a big old word like that

gawddamnright ya are

ya might not be able to pronounce it  but ya were gonna stand up in front of her

throw yer arms straight out of yer shoulders and holler  back down girl 

ya were gonna try and stop her

and like that damn whatever cat

shed extend those claws and go up and over around or through ya

no matter how many times yad grab her by the scruff of her neck and hurtle her 

bodily back from where she come

shed bounce like a fuckin rubber ball off a wall gaining centrifugal force and 

weight and speed

till

eventually

it wouldnt matter

no restraint would

ya were a nonentity the moment that natty cat brokered her mind and convinced 

her of whatever it was she was thinking

the only thing that really hurt ya  was the hurt she was feeling when she come 

back defeated

when she come back crying

inconsolable

ya couldnt lift an edge of that black moon

eventually

only time offered her the consolation shed accept

hey

hey

how ya doing to-day

aint half bad

good

you

me Im better for you aint half bad

youre sweet

I am Im like honey

Id say honey and not sugar cuz I was sticky like she needed and she didnt have to worry about keeping honey  it keep itself

0055,  Wednesday,  31  10. 12

Vellum of Smoke

a thin vellum of smoke drifts lazily off a black cigar cradled in a crystal 

Prometheus ashtray

its odor is pungent and spicy  what you expect black to be

it wafts like an inversion  a thin quivering jellyfish in a breathless room and like a 

confident tide it encircles the record player as Coltranes Blue Train turns

a curious child stands beside the record player 

she ignores the adults who are ignoring her and the smoke slips around her 

crown like the sea laps at the edges of an atoll

it falls across her shoulders and drapes itself across her paps and spine 

avoiding her face and throat

she looks like a grey nun  a terrible benevolence etched on her face 

suffering not joyous

she fingers the wall in time with Chambers bass

a drunken fat man  her grandfather  pushes past her and absently slops his iced 

drink on the shoulder of her dress

she is oblivious

she has practised it to perfection

when the music ends 

another record is not queued up

the adults are too involved to flip or change it out for another record from among 

the long row of bright jackets

she is too familiar and knows better than to be patience for something that will 

not happen

she turns clutching the cloak of smoke at her throat and walks across the room 

the smoke clings to her

she walks out through the tall sliding glass doors onto fieldstone and onto a path 

that leads into a flower garden

I followed her

and found her sitting on a raised koi pond

fingering the water

ignoring the rising hungry fish

I could see them from where I stood

they were reflected off the silver belly of the smoke that extended out from her 

a spiraling axis as if she twirled and danced among the brilliant flowers before 

she sat

I have not seen anything like it since

0144,  Sunday,  25  11. 12