NASA Image of the Day

Sunday, July 31, 2011

Part 14: Lip Lock

The explosion ripped through the two storage tanks like two huge opening eyes, in the darkness.

Grant, standing with the phone in his hand, watched the glow in the night sky, and knew he was near. Cement shard in one hand, phone in the other, he stood there, the glow reflected in his own eyes.

Turning, impossibly, he watched "Love, Magic, Learning", flash in Neon on the side of a building. A tube of lipstick, held in a delicately manicured hand, appeared, rising like a torch, the hand bending down like a snake, towards an upturned, elegant face, which turned to look at him kindly.

"Do me", she said, calmly. "I look better painted."

The screen closed, impossibly, to a head and shoulders of a Robert-Palmer styled, sleekly cut, Mona Lisa look alike.

Grant blinked, twice.

"Jesus", he said. "I can smell you, you freak show."

In the near distance, the siren wailed towards him.



The afternoon is sizzling.
I can see the shimmer bouncing off of the wood, warning me with wavering lips
Of the challenge of afternoon settees.....

I note the cushion appears buoyant enough, springing back from my touch like a
Cursor test;
Airdried barbecues, summer sweat, and assisted breathing

Oh, droll night, that looms nearer,
Bid the lace curtain draw aside its twinkle
To show us languor,

In need of rest, the shadowed dancing within
is strangely silent,
Smiling at the shimmer,
Teeth flashing,
in a slow, sultry
Two step.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

The Swing

Magnolia sweet air, hanging fragrant and languid around our heads,
Tell him a story of my thoughts;
Of the small droplet of water, wending its way beneath the cotton
Swell of summer's haze,
Reminding us of

Saturday, July 9, 2011

The other Life of Bees

If there is a road through all of these stars,
And what seems glow and beckon really is,
Then journeying there can only be a blink and blip on someone's radar screen,
When the little movement that is us displaces calm,
Deep within some Nebula,
Replacing void with ripple, and wrinkle in Time.

There will be this errant bee, carrying us, and we, the
Honey of Life, bringing sweetness
to some
Distant Flower, and the various
Lit upon its Petals.

Tempered Nectar

I think of glen and dale, dark and
sweet as claret balm,
Swirled and stained from your lips, and spilled onto mine, like

I can taste the slow oak of
age, pungent as forest sweat,
in the din and mist of spring,
Its languid tongue, grape-touched and tingling,
Meeting mine, softly.

In the dark, the lips that part and join,
hide the quick soft sigh
New nectar.