e mirror image of herself.
Your attitude is your altitude.
Of course, he's "polished"
(tho' not worn), urbane
witty--this goes without saying.
Well-travelled, maybe, though potential
liability, here, suggestive of footloose.
Restless. Perhaps given over to bouts
of hedonism--a dangerous portent.

Feel I've stumbled back in time,
holding court with Cesare Borgia,
Lorenzo the Magnificent significantly
transformed to a Renaissance courtier.
Harpsichord and madrigal in hand (& head,),
I recite my litany.

I pack a mean wallop--
humour, I mean,
for no one on this spic 'n span
planet wants somebody too droll.
Intensity is a ripple from the sixties.
"Relationship", kickback to the after-glow
on-glow seventies.

Eighties women love "feedback",
"interfacing". Its fashionable to
think chic. Restless troubadours
should be dyed in their own ilk.
Sporty chaps are in demand, ones
with visceral longing for babies &
the peroxide smell of Javex in
diaper pails wafting thru their nostrils.
Heady brew, Perrier & BMW types.

Chrome-plated men with the
razzle-dazzle of the Boardroom
tugging at their cufflinks.
Mutual funds equates with mutual interests.

The man's wishes?
A dollop of Dijon mustard on you!
Hitting the nail on the head.
Holding up her middle finger
to dry nail polish, I see
my future and, golly,
does it ever shine.

TALES OF BRAVE ULYSSES

Artists (astrologers never lie)
are birthed when
Venus is rising--
not against cat's whelp
(eye of newt, tongue of frog)
calamitous mist or London fog;
far, ferny forbidding fenn.

When Venus rises, yes
dons Botticelli's cloak
or was it her hair
gathered in tresses
long by lovely handfuls
parading it all
on a patty shell
--her twin oysters ambrosia
a Ulyssean mirroring winedark sea,
purpling color of a robin's egg.

Artists are born
in something of Venus . . .
conceived along coral-corral
highway lariats, foam
of passion
modern cowgirl
lowering the drapes.

INSIDE SEAM

Having wilderness cracks
in emotional facades
chinks within
to let cabins in.

2
Porous wind
examining pavement,
foot-sore maybe loose
winding entrails
of our hearts
into lavatory paper;
would that it pleased
riddled trees
--more whistling,
poked holes
across oasis tracks
wandering spaces.