Him

He has a tiny mole above the left side of his lip.
And when he gets excited, he chews the inside of his cheek.
He is a master of sarcasm--
When he has something clever to say,
the right side of his mouth curls up
like he is trying to imitate Elvis.
His chest is oddly misshapen.
I could eat Cheerios out of it if I wanted to.

Without his ribs cradling my back at night,
I almost feel naked.
His legs are lean and lanky,
but I feel secure when he wraps them around my body.
I do not have to wonder about all of this,
for i have inhaled him countless times.
And I feel alive.

For Mr. Harrison

I hear that Mother Nature's son has passed along,
and as my tears mingle with the shower's rain,
I want to devour the soap impression I've made
of him on the tiles with my fingertips.

I have been living with my eyes closed--
Yes, I have,
and so I must fix this hole where the rain
sometimes gets in
because
it is not dying
but
it is knowing
that we are all only sleeping,
waiting for the game existence to end.

**I tried something different with this poem; I used lyrics from Beatle's songs for most of the composition, except lines 2 and 4 are mine.**

Peas or Mushrooms

She's so indecisive.
She has this habit of pulling her hair,
and then gnawing on it some.
She closes one eye, perhaps thinking
this might enlighten her.
She pushes her finger to her lips and
hums really loud like she's meditating.
She pulls out her finger and points,
twirling it round like a witch casting a spell.
She asks what I think,
but doesn't even listen for my reply.
I hate Bonnie.

Arrested

She is that phone number I dial from hearing the buttons,
not looking at them.
Her eyes opposite her mouth--
closed.
The corners are moistened as if she sliced an onion.
Her tongue is strained upward at those two hole punches of skin.
Her breasts are swollen as if she were pregnant.
They are ripe as I push my hand to her chest for support.
Her heart throbs like an infected finger.
Her back convex; her navel stretched--
The inside resembles two daisy petals.
Her stomach is a heating pad.
Her hips, small blocks of wood, knock against mine.
She digs her fingertips into my back,
pinching and making me burn hotter than candle wax.

From the Beginning to the End

Beatnik, black clothes
Bette Midler was The Rose
Smoking pot and moccasins
Daisies and balling friends
Did you visit Scarborough Fair
While wearing flowers in your hair?
Stringing beads and talking rhyme
Burning incense any time
Hip huggers, platform shoes
Janis Joplin sang the blues
Poetry and guitar picks
Bob Dylan on politics
Woodstock and tie-dye
Being sober on the Sly
An Angel on a motorcycle
Arlo didn't want a pickle
A record spins The Crystal Ship
Leary invents the acid trip
Pet rocks and Stevie Nicks
Penis casts and Hendrix
Volkswagen Bug, the peace sign
When we get back, I'll drop a line