three-liners

Hearing she is beautiful,
she covers her face:
two equally beautiful hands.

An
Our-mouths-the-newlywed-suite-in-a-tongue-hotel
Kiss.

That essence of yourself which swoons with and around
the roller coaster of each and every
one of your lover's pubic hairs.

I wish for a heaven only
as high as the maple tree outside
the beautiful Danielle's bedroom window.

My lips brush creases,
left by our bedsheet, in her
warm, morning skin.

Autumn leaves falling,
yes, but one caught in a pine--
sweet, clinging old cone.

Autumn leaves falling,
yes, but one whispers through a fir,
wanting to be heard.

Looking at a sky
filled with stars and listening
to some little frogs.

She bends over,
naked,
to sniff a rose.

Women, look at them;let them see
how they make you smile, how
they lift your heart to light your eyes.

We embrace in bed.
The room is dark. And her eyes
are likely closed.

Their relationship
ended; irreconcilable
delusions.

The city in ruins,
the men in coats and bowler hats
become architecture among the rubble.

The tragedy performed daily
between ruins, their shadows,
and a rising and falling sun.

What one can discover in books:
In a long-closed tome of philosophy--
generations-old pubic hair.

Ah, La Fontaine!
Why did you deny us the fable
of The Cock and the Ass?

To tell the future
while enjoying the present--
sweet gig, reading butts.

Dear Author:
Plots are never novel;
all become burial.

Your tombstone replaces your face.
That manly, square jaw
you always wanted . . .

Jogging in a cemetery-
the urge to run
hurdles over headstones.

He joyfully avoided life
's standard blunders:
careermarriagehousekids.

Fond of coffee,
poetry, my warped porch
this chill morning.

in the sky
lone cloud
look at it
**
close your eyes
hold it
in your head

To always live by this refrain:
those buttock-shaped hemispheres
of the human brain!