Millions of strands, perfect shape, coffee-brown, curls for play,
ecstatically-sharp passion with big eyes which were calm but so powerful.
Her power pulls all of me like fur from huskies into a vacuum.
She loved Respighi, louder than all the other sounds. I love loud.
She wrote to music. I would have shivered and written with her.
We would have moved our hearts to the music and locked eyes.
Pines of Rome. She of the Pines would have been my lover.
I would have licked every part of her. I wear droplets
as I air-conduct the Pines with perfect knowledge, institutionalized spirits.
I want to mix batches of Roma with her, making her shake tight curls,
watch her eyes as she smoothly places both palms on my cheeks
with these tasty fingers that meander in the most affluent way.
Tough fingers that know all there is.
She loved Neruda. She was marvelous with surreal etchings.
Surreal is what I hunt for, even when my dark, wet, wool blanket
has me stuck in bundles on floors who don’t care for me
and sneak stabs of shark teeth into my tough fat when I finally sleep.
She would have hung from the fan and sprinkled poems on me,
blowing kisses and shaking her tight curls, laughing mouth open.
Women of letters suck me in with habits that make them sick like me.
I love sick women. Women who are recovering or who tried to recover,
who are all about writing, painting are the ones that drive the sexual attractions
that are deep in my soul, unmovable and unstoppable, always-moving trains.
She killed herself and I know I would have saved her, resuscitated her sharp eyes.
Only those who want the same can care and communicate, right? I would have saved her
for me. She would have written poems for me – Deep, hard poems. Surreal.
She would have held me and blown in my ears while I read.
Why is language so sexual? Music is a torch to my gas.
Women who love art, they are my chocolate mousse.
They charge me back to breathing air that keeps me moving and dreaming.
I wish she were next to me now. I would stay on earth for her.
When I die, can I go where she is? I will search forever.
stillfugue 
#1 by Kathy Boles-Turner on March 6, 2011 - 6:31 am
I read this poem and find myself wanting to know every drop of your writing history. Are you in a poetry group? Do you have someone (with expertise) that would help you polish and perfect your writing? This poem begs for attention from the masses, sir. <3<3 It is raw, but intensely gorgeous. IT NEEDS TO BE PUBLISHED. This and "A Moment Being Better" are truly poetic examples of what would strike a chord among thousands of readers. I'm not exaggerating, promise. Forgive me if I'm stepping all over your intention to write solely for yourself … but you shouldn't be selfish with this.
*This ends my bossy intrusiveness for today*
#2 by Carl on March 6, 2011 - 9:39 am
Wow! Your “bossy intrusiveness” is highly flattering! I say that I write only for myself which is partly true, but it is so incredibly rewarding when even one person likes one of my pieces. I was reading the poet who inspired this piece, and I was reflecting that it is a complete waste of time to write because everything I want to write about has already been written in a far better style with stronger content. It seems that I should spend my time reading all of the beauty that has been created already rather than writing anything, but there remains this strong desire on the inside that brings me back to the pen and paper.
I worked in college quite a bit with a teacher, and I enjoyed that immensely, but I gave it up when it was never good enough in my own subjective eyes. When I write, I have no idea what’s good and what’s not, and I always feel a strong need for an understanding editor. Of course, through education, to which you allude, we can learn to edit ourselves. A couple people in the online community have been a big help and I am taking a few classes at a local writer’s workshop. I love learning about writing.
The reward of being published would be beyond belief, but having one person value it is a beautiful experience. Your generous words fuel a fire for me, and they give me a sense of purpose, and what more could a person ask for than that?
Thank you so much for your kindness!