A Naked Diarist

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_4_Sunrise.mid

white ledge to soften her edges,
untouched for more than a decade,
a naked diarist, she lights white candles
even in the daytime, she is sexually
intense against the white background,

what unimaginable white forces move
her, most will never know, she is like a
rare albino postage stamp you want to
lick, never sealing her white seepage,

Dear Diary~~~White GardeniaAugust 14, 2006

I've learned the random vicissitudes
of fate today, the fates, weavers,
Clothos, the spinner,
Lachesis, the measurer,
Atripos, the cutter of life's white thread,

I share an idealization of women as
attainable beings and worship women
with a devotion that seeks physical
gratification...I want to make her into
white cloth and roll on her, fuck all
spiritual and magical knowledge that
belongs to her.


Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater
http://www.authorsden.com/sagesweetwater
http://www.myspace.com/sagesweetwater

Dust In The Wind: The Weighing Of The Feather Against The Heart Of Truth

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http://www.authorsden.com/adstorage/
29292/DustInTheWind.mid

the weighing of the feather against
the heart of truth lies in the saxifrage
flowers, arcane and ancient, papyrus
fragments of what is truth evolves into
powder through the filaments of time,

the immortal kiss of preening desire,
blown away as dust in the wind, the
nightingale of Oxyrhynchus leaves a
trace, a bookmark feather,

excavating rubbish mounds, kicking
up layers of soil with my boots, the
flow of papyrus soon becomes a torrent
in unequalled archive of an ancient
world mixed with earth, blown away
as lust...blown away as dust in the wind.


Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater,
http://www.authorsden.com/sagesweetwater
http://www.myspace.com/sagesweetwater

Looking For My Muse Bolero

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a nomad muse, she separates
a poetic moment from the
rest of mundane life,
I hold the muse in my mind,
of when she first appealed to me,

I am so thirsty, where is my
muse Bolero, the one not so
serene, but made of the colors
of The Dream, the one restlessly
back and forth at the easel,
the one who splashes paint the
color of dusty desire across my
canvass, under a gnarled pistachio
tree,

I open her folio of faux dreams of
aqua and terra-cotta, what is my
muse Bolero willing to trade for it,
I have pussy willows and green tea
in thimble cups,

{she paints with one hair...}

The Dream is nurturing the painter
and the poet, where is my muse Bolero,
the one who paints with a single hair,
the one who traces my pubic hair with
a brush with just one hair that makes
her immortal in a studio garden of iris
and sky of gold-leaf, frescoes here and
there, where is my muse Bolero...


Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater
http://www.authorsden.com/sagesweetwater
http://www.myspace.com/sagesweetwater
http://home.earthlink.net/~sagesweetwater/