When the moon grows to a fullness
of tunnel's beckoning silver end
I move through many things I grow
to feel sweet feather kisses
of breathing darkness on my skin,

and down between tall rows of corn
and pungent onion scent I kneel
to reach beneath wide prickly leaves
and test with touch the ripeness of
the treasure of my summer squash.

The Valley of the Kings; sleeps
Below the moons blind eye
Within its mask of stars

Stone steps decend
Beneath the sandstorm
Amist the tide of centuries

Temple carvings beckon the night
And dance between
Twilights grasp

Swirling ocean of sand
Unfurls its innumeral golden veil

Sheathing and unsheathing
The Valley of the Kings

thread twists
deep below the depths
waterlines
driven high by the cost
of business

like a bad hinge on a good door
Loved with the mirror
the way the light was thrown
down a damp hip

zoning

nicotine
and pockets full
of stripped out
simplicity

flaunting an edge
and patting down
the cover up

said you missed
a stair

and we wore
too many
years
with our monkeys
on our backs

that gait
hardwon
cornering

Prince Charming is a gigolo
how many stories was he in?
Cinderella caught him
trying to wake Sleeping Beauty.
His defense: she's in a coma
c'mon, Cindy,
is that really such a sin?

She took her glass slipper
shoved it up his ass.
Told him where to put his millions
perhaps you think she's crass.

Snow White was a whore
living with seven old men.
Her legs opened and closed
like a revolving door.
Gods only know
where she's been.