In Which I Drank The Rest of My Rum When I Got Home And Now I'm Lonely.

burn, baby, flow
down my throat
to my
lungs, into my
solar plexus where you'll
sit for awhile, liquid glow,
amber and
intense,
before you'll fall
drop
by
drop,
lower, down, lower,
and
longing .

In Which I Make Saturday's Real Post

Mornings seem more like
timeless
when eyes open, not harshly,
but flutter slow
to warm breath
on shoulderblades.

Skin
on
skin
on
skin
on
lips
is better than caffeine
or even taurine and guarana,
and, baby, I'll be wired
long after you've gone
this afternoon.

But I'll be here when you get back,
of course,
still nursing my
burger-and-fry brunch,
cuz you know they had it right
back in '55 when a malted milkshake
or cherry-syrup Coke
was an unspoken metaphor
and the food was almost as good
as Lover's Lane.