Blossoms

A.E. Bayne

Paper thin skin reeds the bend
of your waist

line licking the bareness of thought apart parts.
My echoless night-heart blooms cherry
blossoms budding.

Viscous nectar from conspicious flower stamens
plops, and a

drop spills, opening my eyes.

Single Images

A.E. Bayne

Dreaming life with fingers twining,
turning pyramids to mingled caresses.
Fingers speak more of your feelings than words.



The curve of her line
Is quite divine.
It sometimes reminds me of a song on a perfect day.

To Gwendolyn Brooks Upon Her Death

A.E. Bayne

Lady word,
morsels tossed lavishly,
crouching,
striking
syncopated bite.
Your dark speak-queen
honey-dripped tongue licks up humanity.

Blessed Words Free the Soul Crushing Malevolent Spirit of Dissatisfaction

A.E. Bayne

Follow the thread to the end;
Don’t fall off the tip.
There is a trick to threading that needle,
A trick of the eye, of the light, of the fingers.

Be the needle who clings to the last fiber of thread,
Then falling to the rug below only picks up a new thread.

To fall through the air before the rug,
To fall out into the open where no thought, no thread,
No stained lip purchases your steely eye
Is the terrifying part.

Now the letting go, the forever gone part;
For once you let go of the thread it has become a part of another garment.
Whose garment do I sew now with these words, with these ideas;
whose fabric picks up my jargon and weaves it into their stories,
Embroidered, basted and seams sewn?

Would you pick the seam sewn thread, part of some larger embellished piece of fabric;
Or would it be tied in knots of confusion with a bristled, split end?
Basted, it would hold tight until the strong sure thread looped the seam,
All very very threaded.

Longitude of Lawrence

A.E. Bayne

Time creates the longitude of Lawrence from words,
phrases of sensual depth riding:
waves, waves, waves.
Like Russian nesting dolls –
Page upon page dripping earthy words,
gratuitously textured to slide over tongues,
roll in mouths,
grit in teeth.
A letter with its letters
foretells and respells a
flippantly formulated,
fastidiously flawed evocation of
reason, dissention and astonishing conceit.
Reconcile.
Reconceal those preponderant buds of intellectual ambiguity.

Blush

A.E. Bayne

Rose
bud blossom.
Petal, petal, petal.
Peel onion-like opposite.
Blush cornucopia of dewy sweet sweat,
scent of rush.
Rose run rapid,
rise bud rose.
My heart flush
from a crush of
roses.

Ghost Fish

A.E. Bayne

The sky last night was ash upon slate, tiles rubbing each other the wrong way.
I thought of our time spent,
you knowing my truths but hiding your own.
That sky, floating around like a ghost fish hooked on my reality,
and I remembered that you were the only one in whose presence I could cry.

That fish must be dead, out in the Great.
Like the way you created who I am now, slate upon slate upon slate
piling with no end.
Each slate that gets tossed on makes the source thrive.
The sky expands in the same direction, nature of it, and I am along for the ride.

All Hail the Cosmic Bitch

A.E. Bayne

What pretentious judgments we make.
She grants us her back,
(and we, fleas that bite and suck)
We treat her
like OUR burden.
A thing to be rolled about like dice between political clowns
sneering, choosing the popular vote.
Rape or repair,
the great debate.
Abuse or reuse,
decide our fate.
As if she might not one day roll
and toss and shake us wide
to hang in the intensity
of the universal void
without a ride.

Meadow