Monday, March 6, 2017

Song of Songs

Who with legs and mind upon her.
Who, with smile and laughter like his.
Who, with practical mechanics
and economics like theirs.
Who, with drugs and music in them.
Who, with a nude nature,
cloth-less to western civilization.
Who, with foreign accents,
who accepts a foreign grasp of hand.
Who, with plump cheeks
and toothy smile.
Who, with thighs that quiver,
with toes a-dancing; climaxing.
Who, with pale blue eyes,
with freckled cheeks,
with crooked teeth,
with lazy eye,
with basketball limbs,
with political thoughts,
with strong opinions,
with bookish desires,
with irrational thoughts
and logical logistics in mind.
Who, with lovely nipples
dressed upon small or ample breasts.
Who, with toes he cherishes,
and a head he adores.
Who, with an ass he cannot help but look at.
Who, with hair he runs his fingers through.
Who, with a figue he could study forever,
its features gradually changing over time.
Who, with beautiful speaking voice
and something to speak of;
with rapturous singing voice
and something to sing about.
Who, with soft navel
upon which he may rest his head.
Who, with brooding mind and natural anxiety.
Who, with not necessarily god on their side,
but instead natural divinity and grace.
Who, who he cannot imagine living without:
who are you?

Aaron C. Molden

Thursday, March 2, 2017

Mount Moran

I see Mount Moran everyday,
in the wrinkles of blankets
and the textures of ceilings.
I see that broad glacial,
and iron expanse
in the everyday shifting
of all that is banal in this world.
Moran is all the mundane movements
of this world multiplied into millions,
then formed into something unspeakable;
incredible; almost alien;
both beautiful and perilous.
I see it in my dreams reflected back
upon the waters of Jackson lake,
like some twin mountain
of an upside down underworld
not yet discover by us,
both consecraters and desecraters.
I see that mountain in grains of wood
and the writhing of a woman's hair
upon her bed sheets.
I see the foothills beside her ablaze
so beautiful in the moment,
both smoke and clouds fusing.
I see Mount Moran in my dreams.
I see her and want to see again.

Aaron C. Molden