Don’t Try That Tusk of Narwhal on Me

I know that’s just an overgrown

                         whale canine

not a unicorn horn

not a hiking buddy

whose sweat I cannot resist the smell of

backcountry man who knows what is required

and how to carry,               bone

and tall and understands

                that we is the only status that matters

to spoon my cooking in, to spoon his in me

                                          finds that just so

acoustic trio scheduled to play an afternoon

               neighborhood bar in L.A., wakes me

                                                        with a throaty

come share Greek pizza on the boardwalk with me

        whom I never cease to stagger,

                                              simpatico,

evolving as I wait patiently and patiently

waiting for me while we climb into higher

                                                        and higher

                                     vibration

                                                             under pine trees

whose protection leaves me

                                  in the enchantment

                                  of willing submission

my best friend, my favorite person

who thinks.

the same.

of me.

one day, could,

from behind a boulder

in the Angeles Forest

milk-white flecked flamingo

                        diamond and lime

with an aura you can just feel is silver

    
  – – I been on enough dusty bay horses

once a slick gunmetal dun with striped legs

even a green broke red roan Egyptian stallion

with a no-shit strawberry blonde spiraled mane

     so what         over it

conjure me up some for-real

bliss-on-tap, stuff-of-myth magic, but please,

don’t swing a twisted fang dripping seaweed

and tell me

                                           it’s a legend

Originally published by Misfit Magazine.

Photo credit: Brett Sayles.