nothing so shallow, nothing so thin as candy crunch color micrometer skin no peanut no licorice whipped red or black no nothing with actual taste to its tack or rasp on its back is shallow as candy crunch color skin that spills rainbowy slippery elbow deep seeds all chocolate inside but we pick out the greens (you never did hear what the others are for?) listen, then, child aphrodisiac’s safe compared to the rest of the prism of taste yellows are seeds for soldiers of light plant them near ho...

My bathrobe wrapped 'round her rose terrycloth trailing while paying for pizza she shivers taps dances while he tries to see more than pale peeky feet more than flushed freckled thorax long storm damaged hair lips dark from the well green eyes lit from mine he exits with ache and I dine + + *TaleWeaver* the author's storytelling, writing and creativity book/game, at www.lulu.com/awhavens Blog is at *www.TinkerX.com*

Only I can make you blush. You said that to me once. Whether heated, private, mottled flush or public rush of rosy, freckled gold at lunch. Quick chuckle or slow thrum of blood. Either/or is mine alone to pull from stores of secret streams that make your pulse not yours. You put on lipstick when we go out to play. Do I like it? I'm not sure that I know... I like the lie it tells to other men. The lie of dawn, the lie of heat. The neon sign, the flash contrast is fine. I'm not the jealous type...

Where does nuditiy begin? So obvious the end. Exposed all. Well lit, dark draped, linen dry, tub splashed, misted, wind kissed, sun slapped, moon piqued, window gleaned, fanned, spanked, raked, prised, given, planned, tanned, pale, surprised... All of that? Why. Where. What. Doesn't matter. Always and forever every woman every man without anything anything! different than Eve and/or Adam before the Big Fall had had. But where it starts... Oh, that can be a cunning plan, a chilling, cold and c...

When did the slim, slightly tousled slip of a girl with grass in her hair and wrinkled, linen slacks slide, unnoticed, into some quiet pool of stagnant water? Her honey hair swirled clockwise just a moment, barely disturbed the grey scum that coats the liquid skin, and then she was gone as if she’d never strode beside me. Summer lived in her tan face, the bowls of her cheeks held sun like soup. Her forehead a map of beaches, trails and parks. Each step she took pushed back the globe one step ...

Is it so hard for you to wear white once a year? Once a year? For coffee? Is that so hard? You are twelve and blonde. Not yellow-sun-corn-blonde. Not Hollywood blonde. Not pancake or butter blonde or golden retriever or screaming neon Vegas blonde. Just your blonde. Which my mother said was honey. Your eyes are still the deep wood, fallen tree brown of something permanent yet soft. The soil at the base of the stone wall where we dug with our hands and buried a cigar box time capsule. You have...

Small birds are somehow always in the mall. The stately, doméd food-court is their hall and tiny sky. Tad, the tall, bald man is flustered by their dives, Perturbed, trying to wind down with fries and coke. "Incoming!" his mind cries. They’ve flown by before he jolts, Curses, blushes, feels shame for such a chicken flinch. Just thrushes, sparrows. Some kind of finch? Who knows, Who cares what make or model of bird lives there In the eves above the columnd gates of Sears. Birds of the food-cou...

you trans formed me little one (ocean cat) with your per fume (sea salt peaches sandal wood) into something faster feral hungry drunk noc turnal /wind wolf/ you joking call me (smiling eye brow arched) time moves slow er for me when your eyes (green gold grey spray of shine on tan sand) lock lock behind mine music drums of children in the clubs thud to a plod march dull strum while you stride inside along my line /wind/ and (wave) make ice of silver jewels rust of golden hair they freeze wher...

Who can blame? Action isn’t taken from a passive vacuum state in plain, black space an empty plate naked, pained, shaved, cold, awake and stained with nothing left lying, moist and waiting draped across blank canvas bed like some voluptuous head of state finally deigning to turn a touch just enough to make a choice and point and whisper "This. Him. Yes." Oh, no. Not me. Not me at all. Him. The Hideous Other. He In Whom She Delights. He Whom She Has Chosen. He Who Touches Her Most Hidden Parts...

+*Part I: Around*+ If I have to be funny at the front door I will hear the screen door out back slam. Peering in the blue draped windows only makes you nervous, makes you shut the blinds. If I knock too hard you run upstairs. If I knock too soft you pretend you do not hear. If I ring (ring, ring, ring) the bell, well, that is what you waited for and you don’t trust that anymore. I will slip a piece of parchment paper in the brass slot where mail used to drop (rules change; curbside box; slot ...