stunning, opalescent blue of a Tiffany work,
the light playing upon your piece,
illuminating you from the soul, cause and wonder for me to sit and think,
amber
prismatic streaks through your hair, angelic vision of art, mystical fourth dimension,
life-size depiction
of a church window in medieval times, we are joined by lead cames, or rods
soldered together as a vast prayer
in glass, the glorious union of sunlight reflecting color,
your memory stays with me on the door of the shower
stall influenced by your graceful lines
and today's wine you pour into a crystal goblet etched with flamingo
feathers while we talk
about Louis Comfort Tiffany's versatility and what drove him to nature and expressing
nature
in his glasswork achieving special effects by working color and texture and I too admire your
art
nouveau style, stunning, opalescent blue of a Tiffany work, the light playing upon your piece,
cause and wonder for
me to sit and think if you were cut to fit a pattern ...
Spirit of Snowy Owl on Tin Cup Pass
Barrow, Alaska (c.) circa 1869
threw a rope over the rafter, hung the past,
snapped its neck, it flashed an intimidating yellow stare before reincarnating ugliness into snow-white beauty,
snowy owl, quick and fierce, knock a grown
woman to her knees to pray, owl wisdom, she rarely seeks shelter from howling winds,
insulated as well as the Arctic fox, you keep
me warm, the sage, a grown woman on her knees, owl wisdom, praying that you lie down with me in the cotton grass blossoms,
nesting females, a hungry chick making wide-mouth demands - mid-May - mid-September pussy,
fuck me before the brief Arctic summer's ending...
Tin Cup Pass, Colorado (c.) circa 1879
threw a rope over the rafter, hung the past, snapped
its neck, it flashed an intimidating yellow stare before reincarnating ugliness into snow-white beauty,
gold dust, I carried you out in a tin cup, Tin
Cup Pass, your precious name, knock a grown woman to her knees to pray, placer claim wisdom, praying that you
lie down with me where alpine columbine's twine around the old ore car - I made a Cumberland Pass, I wanted you
to know I was none of the monotony on the other side of Mirror Lake,
knock a grown woman to her knees, you stared
at the reflection in the water, pussy rippled, you were completely muffled in stillness, you let the sun set, your
nugget ablaze, in a hallowing phase, midnight, a full moon, a bowl of stars, the water runs through your Continental
Divide, what life you have tucked inside the warm, feathery folds of your pussy lips, waning pastels,
fuck me before the boughs of the evergreens droop
to the ground, covered with snow...
reddish-gold tinge the foxtail grass between your
legs, the next generation of women are not in danger of inheriting nothing but the fleshy legend of the two of us,
tonight, I sit in front of the typewriter, without
it, Remington Rand, there'll be no buckskin lesbian curves in the future, no filled-out doe deer for the pattern,
reddish-gold tinge the foxtail grass between your
legs, if I had one meal between me and starvation, it's here I want to be, fucking you, lesbian outlaws, they sold me
the whiskey on top of the coffin, I laid rumor to rest in peace, embalmed gossip and held graveside service, lesbian preachers
ordained the whole damn mess, loaded the coffin on the train, white lightning bootleggers left us their tumbleweed
wagon, blazed our names on the firebrand pages of women's history, I don't choose to ride a straight trail,
I took a sheet of carbon paper and typed a double copy,
we are immortalized in this ballad, I take a sip of whiskey from my Mason and hand it to you for the sake of pioneer
diaries, reddish-gold tinge the foxtail grass between your legs, the next generation of women are not in danger of
inheriting nothing but the fleshy legend of the two of us,
souvenir hunters chip away at the gravestone, trying
to pry out a piece of ass gossip, that train derailed, that coffin slid out and put rumor to rest, pussy spreads
wide at the telegraph office, only hitch is - no telegraph office exists, lesbian outlaws impose order on the wild
frontier, bandit barbers who nip the necks of gossip, bordellos, casinos, and we donate the money to churches,
you give me a quarter to throw up a tin can,
shoot me some beaver...
quail, its presence heralded by its characteristic call
"wet-my-lips" has just spoken for me! My God, I have just seen you from a long hiatus, with your Pharaoh hound, known
from the tomb paintings in ancient Egypt, a beautiful Phoenician trader and her dog,
I have wolf teeth for trade, I pull them from
the saddle bag on my Percheron bred in the Le Perche District of north France,
for over a year, I have wanted to climb you like
the vines of a passion flower, devour your pulpy fruit inside the ovary, your female gonad, fuck you in the dogbane family
of the oleander, showy cluster of pink flowers excellently camouflaged passion,
I remember your picture, the last time I saw
you, you were standing on that red sandstone ledge waving me off in ancient Petra after paying your toll, I was
off to my next watering hole of women, in company with my pretty camel driver of two millenia ago, that's me in
the corner, that's me in the spotlight,
you notice me now, start swinging your bull-roarer,
whirling it rapidly and the loud, moaning hum has me coming, a primitive orgasm is what I need so bad right now,
these wolf teeth are yours, I throw in a whetstone because I know you are fascinated by ancient cutlery, the long-tine
forks, erotically speaking, I want to skewer your guinea fowl and fuck you with the grotesque ivory handle of the 17th
century, spit on the whetstone for you...
quail, its presence heralded by its characteristic call
"wet-my-lips" has just spoken for me!
