VOLUME 10 TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTARSIA

 

Whatever darkens your mushroom, babe,

Bruno Magli shoes, leopard throat flowers;

As you begin to sag in mirror dark places

The spa of self-delusion knows no depth.

 

Inside poetry I see what others cannot,

Explore the fingerboard of words that don’t

Rest well on your inner soap dish, as you

Reach and touch only a slippery blackness.

 

You perfect the nightie with a retro cardigan,

Crawl into bed with a self-hug, a quiet cry,

And thank God and the bristling universe

For all you will ever need or ever know.

 

In your stretchy blend of soul search

You visit  the mile-high on Colorado shoots,

Dare to wrap your honey-flower senses

In their ancient Andean mummy rags.

 

Sitting in your museum 2-piece

One spaghetti strap falls, harvest hands

Move to caress your demure slopes,

Feed you from golden clam shells.

 

Standing in the midnight moon

Hand-woven, faceless as digital silver,

How do you recognize the spirit

Of which you are the center?

 

In your wooden inlayed mosaic mask 

You grope for a soul that is timeless,

Importing spring by scarf, your cupid

Twisting the soft twill in a hemp sling.

©Jimmy Warner Design, 2001