Kimmy’s Garden

tatoo. . .tatoo. . . tatoo
tat. . . . .tat. . . . .tatoo
tatatoo. .ratatoo. .ratatat
rata-tat-tat. .tan-tara-ra. . tan-tara-tat-tat

emblems on me
. . . . .rhythms in me
branded outside
. . . . .and in

mottled
. . .moist
. . . . .memories
your kisses
on my forehead
caste marks
dappled
skin smeared by echoes of
your fingerprints
in shadows
secret messages
traced along my back
erased by shivers
still etched in
imagination
palm impressions
imprint of thigh of body

body. . . body. . .body
back. . . . .back. . . . .back
bata. . .bata. . .bata
beats. . .beats. . .beats

my heart beats
physiological fanfare
a sudden succession of
. . . . .salaams
acknowledging your
presence
. . .proximity
. . . . .provoking
flooding streams
beneath my
flesh swell
ebb and flow
splashing surging
cause shudder
st. . .st. . .stutter
and in st. . .st. . .staccato speech
answer the riddle of

thaw. . .thrum. . .thump
thun- - -der. . .thrust
throb. . .thresh- - -hold
thoughts. . .thrills. . .thirst:

you

tatoo. . .tatoo. . .tatoo

Now, about us.

We must discuss,
focus, and fuss
over your profoundly specious
and zealous prospectus
of a sign that reads:
“Busy. Don’t interrupt us!”
This is really quite a genius
plan to avoid in coitu rumpus.

And if we can remain non-suss,
despite the raucous,
on our comfy lectulus:
me with my corpus gibbous
and you my fervidus Bacchus,
Mars and Venus,
plus and minus,
luscious congress,
omnis prodigiosus
atqui mirus…
we could be on
the shuttle bus
to volcano eruptus.

There’s only one thing
for which I am nonplus:
is the effectiveness of the sign versus
the current reading level minimus
our three year old parvulus.

Better to use modus cautus
and just lock the door-is
for no worries in loco parentis.

le chat du sable porte des rayons de soleil
son petit nez mouillé se cache derrière les tâches rouges
ses yeux s’ouvrent, me montrant la nuit de sa vie

le chat de la neige est enrobé de velours
le continent d’Afrique sur son nez me demande de le chatouiller doucement
ses yeux de bijoux de jade se ferment
me disant qu’ils se fient de moi;
cependant, ses oreilles sont toujours au garde-à-vous

le chat des ombres porte toujours son manteau d’hiver
il a les yeux de l’aube
sa langue attrapée par les dents m’invite à jouer

My favorite
of all Valentine’s Day gifts
ever given to me
are not sugary, silky, or even shiny.

Diamonds and jewels?
No, though they are so
beautifully bourgeoisie.
How can i tell if they are really conflict-free?

Not chocolate or cut flowers
grown on and harvested from plantations…
How could i sleep at night
knowing of all the horrible exploitations?

Or sexy red lingerie, and what i am saying
my little mutton chop,
belly flop. . .bed hop
whipped cream on top
spit swap. . .riding crop
non-stop love-taco drop
pillow prop. . .motorcycle cop
she-bop. . .skin sop
bumper crop of wild pop
sponge mop. . .

just isn’t the same
if it came
from a sweat-shop.

My love, all i want, for true
is the daily trust, love and respect from my
anti-globalisationist bébé:
YOU

(well, and all those tickles, too)