I am staring at the moon,
it is full and orange, round,
its face seems inquisitive, wondering,
it makes me wonder what you’re doing.
Under this moon you are sitting around a campfire,
you are singing songs while strumming your ukulele,
you are packing coal around their hearts for fuel for them to burn, passionate, as you are, yet serene and seldom straying,
peaceful, calm, like this night,
and the crickets and cicadas, chirping and rattling the trees, and the breeze turns your head up and you look at that round moon hanging in the distance, and we are bridged there staring at that orbiting body.
Meanwhile, down Tropicana Avenue, sirens are soaring from an ambulance racing and my neighbor’s dog is barking into the night,
absorbed too in the lunar phase, and I am listless, longing for you, I am longing for your kisses upon: My lips, those steamy celebrations that smolder,
seeking transubstantiation in slipping to a cheek, an eyelid, to my forehead, my earlobe,
that part in a moan as my own lips turn pilgrim that sojourns to sacred places –
at your peaks and precipices,
at the apex and their valleys there, at a nipple, your belly button,
the dip where hip meets thighs, and I lay prostrate before you, praying, whispering secrets to lips that will never say a word,
then flickering away from lingering and placing my devotion on thigh and knee and calf.
O Abraham, as you devoted self to the welfare of strangers’ weary feet,
I will lavish toes in ecstatic devotion, bite heel and kiss an ankle draped over my shoulder, and in finding soldier at attention, penetrate your sacred space,
to worship at your temple,
and you gasp as pussy lips, accepting cock-head, part,
as you groan for the feeling of my phallus’ fullness, filling you, and I shudder as your walls quake and quiver on my thickness throbbing.
O Jericho! Hear my shofar blasts, the breath at your ear as I fall over for the feel of you,
the adulation in each sigh for the sensation of you and I in our nearness, the depths of me utterly, that could not be further,
whose strokes are a kaleidoscope chorus in cacophony, there is nothing but you and I pressed together: organ and grinder gyrating in congruity,
that gasp for breath in nearing climax….
And I am still listless,
still staring at that moon so many miles away from you,
every inch a kilometer all its own, each minute a day that saw the sun speed from horizon to horizon,
its lines can be traced through space to my heart,
each hour a century,
each day the incomprehensible ages that see the forging of celestial bodies.
And the moon is a beacon that flashes as a lighthouse,
Luna Faro, you are so distant too, as if I could reach you I could touch her, whom I pine for looking up at you.