I chase language with fire?
standing there watching the imploding words,
their orgasm of feelings sprawling all over the page.
just because I sit alone by candle light
when the strong, hot black coffee
still hasn't worn off just yet.
and Ma Rainey is wailing the blues
in some other room down the hall.
and I am thinking of how
I want to strap my arms and thighs
around your beautiful leather-clad body,
cruising deep into the Mojave Desert
on your red Virago.
listening to the Eagles
and drinking wine straight from the bottle.
sleeping by campfire and wolves by night.
picking batches of saguaro flowers
on some crisp mesa trail
for no other reason than
it feels good to be creative. just because
whenever you look into my eyes
you never know what you'll find there.
how there are things I want to tell you.
things about my life you should know.
the skeletons gathering dust in my closet.
the dreams I hold through rose-colored glasses.
how will I know when the timing is right
to let go and surrender to this
swelling inside? this rising ache of
longing. these feelings
I have yet to explore. did anyone ever
tell you falling in love with a poet
could be dangerous? did anyone ever tell you
it could be one of the most intense adventures
of your life? it might just take
a leap of faith.
a sense of knowing
this could be real. this could be
happening.
I could just sit back
and enjoy the ride. you just
might
come along.
© 1995 by Kim Beavers