Call to me

Posted on Oct 18, 2015 in Poetry, Writing

What are you saying
with your bare legs at that angle,
your knees rocking
at intervals that call to me.
Toes pointed starward.
You are music,
an angel—
A siren.

There are sights

Posted on Nov 2, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

There are sights dragging us places,
that could flip reality
on a dime in the space of a breath.
Brushing past with long legs
in an outfit a designer must’ve chuckled to make.
There are sights that could lean
an unchecked life filled with purpose
toward utter foolishness.
Such plots
that cause one to stop
in his tracks
and live a dream of a bubble
that pops in just moments,
or in ten wasted years.
or a life gone down the tubes.
I’ve seen it in more than a few.

It’s the swell

Posted on Sep 2, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

It’s the swell
and fall.
And I’ll take land and a view.
The girls walk by
in bikinis more sexy than flesh.
I hadn’t known what flush was
nor legs, knees
What were ankles and toes in those days?
Was there even a me?
How provocative an idea can be.
One which drives everything,
though no one will say it.
Come play
at the sands of the sea.
I’ll lay still,
while you trip, intentionally.
When our clothes
shed like autumn’s leaves
And in the long night of winter
we’ll make house.
Angels falling,
Others climbing.
We’re betwixt heaven and the dream
And you’re mine
until we’re dying.
And when flesh walks by
you won’t look
And neither will I.

The glass

Posted on Jun 1, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

The glass slides shut
And I see gold rims on your shoes
And —No Talking— in your eyes
While your ankles
are at angles
that most men would sell their souls for
And your knees,
they’re too friendly to each other for my liking.
I could eat you.
The glass slides again and you leave
without a look
And I file you away under
“fuck”
Later.
When we’re home and we don’t talk about it
Since our breath will talk enough
And your knees will talk in different ways.

Tarry (v2)

Posted on Oct 24, 2012 in Poetry, Writing

I held your feet as you climbed,
ankles,
sundress—
irrelevant as the lack of the
sun—

The bend of your knee,
thigh, then
thigh,
form versus function,
sky—

Tarry

Posted on Apr 29, 2012 in Poetry, Writing

I held your feet as you climbed—ankles—sundress—irrelevant as the lack of the sun. The bend of your knees, thigh, then thigh, form vs function, sky—

ward—As my heartbeats skip, as the ladder shakes—you tarry—I overtake

you—I am inside.

My name, my name, never in vain—

—tempt me, love me, for heaven’s sake, speed my breath from above me.

The cooking makes me cry

Posted on Feb 27, 2012 in Poetry, Writing

My hands run up your slender stalks—
my eyes and heart go further.
Are we so different anymore—
my nails, their marks—
the earth.
The other day, I felt my knees,
they woke and hinged too wide.
I wore your clothes,
you fixed my hair.
Your cooking makes me cry.

Flywheel keys – Cary Briel

Posted on Dec 22, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

People love things,
like chocolate,
the ocean,
things that give pleasure
or pain I suppose, like
bondage–
handcuffs,
whips,
ropes and their burns,
constricting at places,
anatomical, places
you’d never tell your mother.

When I was young, and still
even,
though I never play anymore,
I loved small engines.
I knew an old man, selling
Briggs and Stratton,
Tecumseh,
Kohler,
a rotund old man.
He took ten minutes to walk from
his house to the shop,
where thick books took the space
a computer would these days.
But the computer wouldn’t smell
so musty,
so wonderful,
and would be way too up to date.

On the shelves in the back,
wonderment–
carburetors,
needles and floats,
head gaskets,
pistons and rings,
valves and springs,
points and condensers,
magnetos,
and the always flywheel keys.

The smell of gasoline
could be pheromones to me,
twice as much so when burned
through a combustion chamber, that is
if the points are set at .020,
if the condenser is good,
if the magneto and flywheel and spark plug
are gapped.

Perhaps I should drip
gasoline at the constricted places, once
the handcuffs and ropes
are in place.
But unleaded regular or premium?
I don’t think I can smell
the difference.

Warrior – Cary Briel

Posted on Dec 17, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

Your pretty eyes
dart, gaze from behind
your mask,
your facade.
The bend of your knee
is all that I need
to sustain the day.
The angle of your ankle
subdues the monster
in man.
Strength fades.
He’s owned by
the weakest,
the smallest.
Big muscles sit
outdated,
outmoded,
while prettiness sighs.
Little one
supple,
sensuous,
I will climb back
into the womb,
I’ll be born again,
forget
what facilitation,
what imposition,
the time of the wall
that would be a door,
when you looked so comely,
so pleasant,
so accommodating,
when you overtook
by being overtaken.

It’s shiny – Cary Briel

Posted on Jun 12, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

It’s shiny
and that’s the in.
It could be a bracelet, ring,
or even—especially—
shoes.
And I say, I can write this.
You wake and think,
‘I will be pretty.’
You can’t possibly know
that it’ll bring a smile,
that a beat will skip,
that you’ll draw eyes
in passing,
or from a distance,
and that it says something.
It’s shiny
and so are you.
My heart leaps,
as you pass, and I think
we knew each other,
it must be true,
in other worlds,
in other lives,
and I held your hand,
and you cried.
And I must have loved you so.