Kimmy’s Garden

bracelet here on my left wrist tight

brightly shining circles around

repetition of rings _ spiral

endless rhythmic geometry

leaves an impression

you touch to examine

coffee-cup stains on the table

sugar spilling over the edge

dancing free with gravity _ pulled

down while memory replays each

missed opportunity …

 

in imagination I turn

I turn _ left into light-striped dark

covet earth and air _ listening

frightened by fickle chemistry

hesitation here

left speechless

between beginning and beginning

tongues as catalyst _ a stirring

hidden under many layers

this exothermic reaction

in three heartbeats from your three steps

in this direction of …

 

leaving _ without a farewell

closure so cruelly _ withheld

here lingers a masochistic itch

of missing _ and of wanting

to fall _ to fall down

to recall the physics

remembering only linguistics

your words there never dissolving

I am left infinite-anti-

cipation-addicted to our

conversation to be continued …

I am preparing a male impersonation act, and what better subject to include than meat. I over heard a fellow rugby player talking, and he has inspired me to write a little something on Meat:

  I like my meat real thick:

you know,

like one-and-a-half or two inches thick. Mmm.

  And I like it pink:

you know, oh yeah,

seared goodness on the outside,

but rare, raw and tender on the inside,

there, you know, right in the middle.

  Oh, and I like it hot:

you know,

flaming hot, ooo,

with all those juices running down!

  And I like it really spicy:

fiery flavour, oh yeah,

tasty tasty tasty!

gimme some of that salt-and-pepper,

if you know what I mean.

  But, you know,

I especially like my meat jerked,

oh yeah,

and some of those other rubs are real nice too.

  I do love my meat. Mmm, mmm!