Famished (i am)

Drink as though you've dreamt
in cool streams of aqua vita.
Devour what you crave
under red flame and red raw.
Indulge in your ingenious ideas,
swoon in the sweet murmurs
of language and lingering lyric,
encouraging and nourishing.
Listen to those.
Ingest for pleasure,
erupt with contagion
-for that I came-
-thou art that-
but You.
Just Now
meaning
Everything.
There is nothing more.



-for that I came- is from the poem What I Do Is Me-For That I Came by Ray Bradbury and -thou art that- is used often by Aldous Huxley (I am certain the all other words have also been used before by someone somewhere sometime somehow in some(other)way as well).


Image of painting by Ramon Casas i Carbó [Public domain],c. 1892 via Wikimedia Commons.

Hunger in the sculpture garden

Tempting as it sounds
to taste literature with my tongue
there is a limit to what we can know
about authors intentions
the recipe is always
made to personal taste.
And once again I was lured to lick-
almost taunted
to be truthful-
with its smooth lines
melting in the sun
to tactfully taste the Rodin.
My palm salivating
I took a tiny sip
with just my salted fingertip
and noted the same
famished touch as Auguste,
kneaded under me. So I proceeded
to touch each one,
with my limb and flesh, swallowing the
sculptures and devouring their
stoic expressions.
A feast for the eyes,
an appetizer of art, bodies of work
for my insatiable appetite craving more

elements in my metallic spit.


Photo credit: Me, myself and I, 2/11/16.