July [26] 2008



Her rose wet lips

sink in the soft hairs

of his bulging nipples


as shimmering waterbeads

drip off the black marble

above the redwood beams,

and an everslight drizzle

patters the mahogany bench beneath his back;


in the misty fragrance

pink and watery

as Japan,


the lovely geisha massages her man.


And like the little fisherman

floating on strawmind,


she barbhooks into his heart

leaving the hunted marks

raw fish have before cleaning.


Her soft geisha mouth

like cherry blossom plume

puckering red pictures on rice paper

silk-screens decay in his chest.


She prepares for the rubdown,

and he, in his finest geisha’d hour,

leans back in the hot hot-tub.

Her floating pelican fingers

sponge suds from lilypads

as she circles

with the calm of her palm,


and like the water-polished sheen

displayed in an ornament of jade

on him

she creates

soft, silent repose.

Now wide as two watermelon

his lungs

and his skin

standing proud

in half-inch

octagonal goosebumps,

He climbs up the tub’s starboard side

like a rescued sailor overboard.


And throughout his each and every open pore

she adorns snow-capped Mount Fuji

on a terry-cloth towel.

The scent of slapping talcum

brings him to arouse,

geisha puckers

geisha bows.


His green dreams

arise with the steam

out to the evening air,


and as naturally as seasons come and go,

green dreams vanish like Fuji’s snow.


Bowing once more,

but without a pucker,

the geisha steps into her private shower.