TAI CHI LOVEMAKING

Pushing hands, I yield to your gentle force,
redirect it, respond to stimuli
of your warm frame, roll back to alter course
of our caress, flesh alert to taiji
song. Waving hands like clouds, holding shoulder
press, relaxing chest and rounding back, you
smile as I match you, watch your eyes, bolder
now. You extend in single whip, then Wu
brush knee, and golden rooster on one leg,
all while prone. Leaning in, my snake creeps down
carries me to you, and I slip past ledge
of your thigh, where all emperors are crowned.
We coil and breathe deep, passion and peace, two
bodies as one, symbol of Taijitu.

Roger Armbrust
February 28, 2009

SONG: MY SOLITARY CELL

How can I tell you
what I feel?
I just met you
You’re not real
Soon I’ll forget you
then I’ll steal
back to my solitary cell

Life here apart
is good for me
Keeps my poor heart’s
sanity
locked up tight
where it’s meant to be
here in my solitary cell

I never give out keys
Not I love you or please
But all of a sudden
your soft smile
fits my window
like a long-lost file

If I let you stay
here with me
what would you say
our sentence should be?
If it’s for life
I’ll break free
free from my solitary cell


Roger Armbrust

OX

No, not musk ox—carrying massive coat
like a charred haystack crowned by gray mangled
wolfskin—letting its mating perfume float
as lethal ether. Nor barely angled
horns of Asian water ox—notched, stretched freight
like dark dragon boats—their bearer wading
through muddy Yangtze while towns celebrate
its fabled fate. But I speak of fading
blue onyx trinket—my personal feng
shui—I place in my bedroom’s south corner,
its twin above my front door. And this ring
of sardonyx I display on border
of my nightstand. Surely these, and gold box
filled with fu, bring love this Year of the Ox.

Roger Armbrust
February 19, 2009

ROGUE WAVES

Sometimes rippling of our bodies beyond
small obstacles and openings diffracts
into impotent night. Sometimes second
thoughts form rage-forced currents, brutal, exact
as surgeons’ knives dissecting our senses,
our vital organs, memory and hope.
Sometimes during parties, my flesh winces
as I slouch on thick couch, smoking bad dope,
a coastal island enveloped by sea
of pillows, you lying on flushed carpet
with spilled drink, our outbursts storming sadly
through old friends, sweeping them past parapets
of tolerance. Wounded dolphins, they dive
in swift retreat, desperate to survive.

Roger Armbrust
February 17, 2009

NYC

I don’t need to live there anymore. For
a quarter century I took its best
shots to the head, throat, gut, balls, buttocks (or
was that my wallet?), most of all the chest
and its fragile pounding muscle. Listen,
you’ve never loved till you’ve paused in Herald
Square at midnight—snow swirling like legions
of lost moths—pressed to a woman who holds
your soul as you move as one, handing your
doggy bag to a shivering homeless
angel, her eyes flinching, then glowing pure
light at taste of a lukewarm meal. She blessed
us in her rasping breath, her bony white
hand waving high till we were out of sight.

Roger Armbrust
February 12, 2009

MOON

Airless furnace and freezer, its near side
a crusted ashtray, far side a molded
cue ball, victim as asteroids collide
through eons. Still, love, we have enfolded
its soul in our psyches, eyes hypnotized
by its chameleon light portraying one
night some ancient Greek statue’s traumatized
face, one night a bright burnt-gold medallion,
its electric reflection a glowing
spine rippling broad back of an ink-black sea.
This night do you see it as I—flowing
dreamlike within blue-white clouds, canopy
a prelude for snow? Chant softly some old
song, love, as I enclose you from the cold.

Roger Armbrust
February 10, 2009

BARE OAK

not black but gray-black--shimmering morning
rain slicking its frame still--though broken clouds
have shriveled like worn-out steel wool, warning
of sudden frost and soaked street forming crowds
of black ice poised to foil drowse-eyed drivers
fooled they’ll ease Kavanaugh’s curve, unaware
this guard hoisting high-tentacled divers
arms is hailing them with stiff, silent care
to halt or at least slow down. Hunched under
closed dance school’s awning, February’s fist
punching me in the throat, my hand wanders
out toward old warped bark tower, crack-limbed wrist
flicking brief wave, mute effort to confess
how we both share gnarled roots of loneliness.

Roger Armbrust
February 7, 2009

OPEN MIND

I just read this blue book with no author’s
name and it speaks of sunlight of spirit,
see, and I realize I’ve lived here years
with all window blinds shut tight and here it’s
April and I unfold the Venetians
and quick as a Vegas card dealer’s flick
a shine brighter than a lighthouse beacon
fills the room, see, and flowers electric
as neon blaze I guess like you expect
out there but in here I see wallpaper
flowing with universe of stars gold-flecked
and glowing and I laugh as I caper
leprechaun-like SSI envelope
in hand singing I’ll buy a telescope!

Roger Armbrust
February 5, 2009

CLITORIS

Prepuce like a monk’s hood or flesh archway
for your glans—soft, pink chickpea I watch swell
at my tongue-tip touch. Your body gives way
to flinching laughs as, between licks, I tell
you it’s Greek for little hill, then grows still
as windless willow while I nibble your
labia—supple minora wings fill
my lips, your moisture a chalice’s pure
nectar. Love, tell me your desire tonight,
this night of exploding stars, this night gods
create worlds to inhabit with fire. Cite
what gesture pleases you. Oh, merely nod
yes as I dive through you, thriving within
this tidal lagoon where all life begins.

Roger Armbrust
February 1, 2009