© 2 May 2011, The Griot Poet
Over 200 + photos
and my index finger counts
the costs going numb clicking “like”…
You floss a million dollar smile…
And the spring breeze lifts
your hair like you’re on a yacht somewhere,
And it gently lifts your…sundress.
I digress to Phat Cat Players lyrics,
Doing a Google search and You Tube
to see and hear it (again) to recall its essence:
I, Cyrano, write prose to you…
The Sword Saint, Myamoto Musashi
wrote “Go Rin No Sho”: a Book of Five Rings
On strategies he used to slay 60 men
in combat from the age of 13
(the first sword versus his boat oar),
My sword is not martial,
but Chaka Zulu’s IXWA: my pen.
As I begin, I implore the spirit
of muse to ensure that I explore
the method of his strategy in
this Sundress piece to you.
Yours is an elegance deficit
of younger generations,
you lie there confident,
regal and appealing.
Capable of dancing “The Wobble”
and stopping traffic with
your queenly entrance to any room,
I swoon over the luck of mother earth
to touch your frame and tickle your skin
with blades of Texas Augustine:
royal, pious; scene serene as you
serenade the photo artist
from your throne of silence.
It has a singular mission:
To travel several thousand miles
from the stratosphere, to become
one with the fabric of your sundress.
Yet the drip-drop of its cousins
causes you no distress,
wet fabric cools skin unmarred
by middle passages past,
like incubi fairies,
di-hydrogen monoxide rides
the membranes of your pours to
explore the sanctuary of
your fair membrane’s nucleus,
an intimate masseuse
mere mortals on Nefertiti’s skin
can only imagine.
The dress clings to the orifice of your skin.
You come in and light the fire,
kicking off those sandals, red, gorgeous toes
fully painted and exposed.
Fire aspires by radiation to touch you
as he does – steam pours from both of you
and you embrace Christian as a red/yellow blaze
embraces you: a spiritual Ménage à trois
of humans and element: the dress and his clothes
canopies the floor like a patchwork quilt un-sewn
(wine glasses thrown across the floor)
as you pull him close to kiss and pretzel
with you forming and entering Aphrodite’s and
Fire crackles, live writing sonnets on
entwined legs and logs, radiation heating sweaty,
luminous African skin,
clinging, touching, breathing to climax:
your pyro Cyrano.
“In the beginning was the Word,
and the Word was with God
and the Word was God.”
And following John 1:1,
the Word spoken was “light, be”
and a universe was born,
gases, accretion disks,
coalescing to planets,
forming firmaments and continents;
earth, water, fire – the spirit of void
represented by wind,
the same that lifted…your sundress.
In the beginning, the Word painted
the portrait of you in a sundress:
but first He had to create
a universe for you to reign in it.