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.
The Life You Could Have: a memoir 