flute

what I wake to is the sinuous
rhythm of a snake-charmer
and my body weaves a

story sways the night
into a deeper darker
thing winds threads of

shadow around my flesh
the sensual gyrations of my
hips ceremony of silk-

soft hair while lust splits
the room asunder moonlight
pale and shimmering

upon my bones my bed
the pillows of my body's
serpentine writhing



feathercuts

over and over the cd repeats
the same beat the same sounds
and no sooner than it stops my
finger is back on the play button

he says you and your spacey
music you in the dark with
your candles you and your
pretty little cats

he doesn't even realize
he's tranced too he's been
hypnotized the music is changing
the waves of his brain

on the walls random shadows
ascend and descend and
I think what I hear
are bells being rung but

in some faraway place
and the flickering candle
flames remind me of his eyes
in the other room reading poetry

bukowski poetry I hear the
sound his hand makes turning
pages and this is also a sort
of music or a part of the music

which is also a part of the shadowy
travels up and down the walls
by unseen hands instead of
turning pages ringing tiny bells



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