A match from above.
Red freckles. Ginger hair. Mares.
Blending. Receptive.
There are no red-headed saints.
Standing in the warm water.
Bathed in stardust.
Looking at the Full Moon.
Drawing in Luna’s light.
I thought of a friend in a rough storm.
I wanted her to see Luna’s glow.
“Here, take my eyes.” I whispered.
How can I see what you see when I am not with you.?
Her voice is trembling.
“Look through my eyes, “ I replied. “You’ll find out”!
This is what a healer, a psychic, a mystic does.
They give the other their eyes
How your nipples sting.
Tracks from ripped tape blaze your skin
Where sex marks the spot.
American haiku.
Deemed such by Kerouac.
Damn the meter. Press on. Brief.
Dreams of anxiety.
Breaking haiku meter.
Hold two pencils in your hands
Jack Kerouac by Tom Palumbo circa 1956
She wears Doc Martin hightop
Encrusted with rhinestones.
She’s one who’d rather say
“I’m excited” rather than anxious
She looks into a mirror too much
Trying to heighten her expectations.
Rich with words. With faux propriety.
Banal in her sense of style and color.
Her need to personify something else.
Good at social media. The verbal invitation.
Numbers. Sitting at the MacBook. Doing the numbers.
Probably thinking
About how to accentuate her ass.
On target in person.
Projecting the right shade of positivity
The right degree of energy.
Addiction of presentation.
Of hidden needs.
She walks a little bit faster than she wants.
Her tears locked
Behind the chastity belt surrounding her clit.
The chastity belt that surrounds her clit.
Even her orgasms are anxious
