Larry Jaffe

Fingers first
touching

She has heard
all the clichés
of warmth
and persuasion.

She has lived
all the moments
of instant anything
and survived it all.

Then there was
the moment
of eyes first seeing and
fingers first touching
in transparent overture.

It is that first touch
that awakens loneliness
arousing memories
long forgotten
mystifying wonder.

A flash of connection
a clash of indifference
then silence
the loneliness
in poignant scream
of eyes first meeting
elation and woe
in single gasp.

He worries
she might lose
her virginity to ancestors
or herself
that she might
forget the smile
that fingers touch.

Inamorata
blues scape

A heart scrapes by
weaving sometime blues
tip toeing with life
faces drift through this opera
so many lives lived
and so many not challenged.

Inamorata eyes this
star lit fantasy
sighting destiny
in this lonesome
hero heart.

Divinity comes
in two flavors
aesthetic and sensual
the muse names preference
with timeless acts of infinity.

The faces openly admired
from lives once lived and
now forgotten
reach past hearts
and grasp unforgiving pleasures.

The faces serve
as pastime
inebriating creation
with ideals
subject
karma
And ultimately
ideas of love.

Ode to silent
moments

Between breaths
of eucalyptus reign
Between shudders
and eye blinks
Between stretches of
twisted flesh writhing,
the caress of beauty
ascends.

A moment’s revenge
where clocks cease to exist.
Between whispers of candlelight
and fine blond hair and
china complexion.
An exploration of fate
to contemplate the ruins
of his heritage
between the dimples
of her smile
and eyes not so desperate
where he found peace.

In desperate
recreation
of joy

In those moments
of desperate sadness
sleep is looked upon
as the ultimate act of solitude.

It is the final resting place
before dying
allowing loneliness
to be alone
with less pain.

Not for dreams or nightmares
or reminiscences of what once was
no, it is simply a precious moment
to escape into unconscious
in relief of the
hostile blunders of life.

And in those narrow moments
When eyes search
for joy no longer realized
thanks to the march of time
a figmented mental cross burning
before my eyes, I remember.

I recall washing your hair
the first time
we showered together
and you were all full
of sex and giggles.

How we walked
down Melrose Avenue
body within body
so close as to be
redefined as one.

Now sometimes
I wonder at the weeping desire
that once burned in Holy Communion
time’s bumps and bruises
negating the spectrum
so carefully created.

I don’t want to grow up
to be a sad-eyed man
eating cynicism three times a day.

In pique of bigotry

He went to a barber
who spoke no English
but cut hair
with maestro majesty
crew cut to the soul.

He confessed
everything
the barber understood
nothing.

still he felt better
not bitter.

He said that he hated
that the Jew kids
loved these people
he said it till the
blood streaked vitriol boiled
and no one misunderstood
not even the foreign barber
cutting hair without wisdom.

He consulted the bigot
within placating
his every thought
with birthright
not honor.

He considered himself
to be a fair and honest man
he did this without mirrors
twisting birthright
from nobility.

Not for a moment
did he wonder
what possessed people
like him
who wore hate
like bandages
over never healing
wounds.

He battled with loathing
over reason, arguing
that bigotry was genetic
not evil, a disease
not a decision.

his haircut complete
with nazi accent.

Men who wear breastless suits

There are men
who wear breastless suits
and for them money
is everything. They are
never chased far
from opportunity.

They never wander
with idle anticipation
or stoop to the
serenity of nature,
unrepentant sons to the end.

Wearing tight fitting
death masks disguising ego
with undisclosed shame,
living terrified secrets undisclosed.

They wear short hats
to keep wiles undercover
and their sincerity banished. Living
in a two bit dichotomy.

Bandanas are worn
where eyes once stood
a cursing conveyance
to vacant soul. Even
their spectrum of underwear
is uptight and ill fitting.

These men who wear
breastless suits their
pain hidden in billfolds. And
on their belts are notches
signifying number of widows made
and debts never paid back
to society.

They walk hunched
carrying golden carnage
in overcoat pockets
a featherless plumage.

Let us see if the devil
may care as they stoke
the fires of relentless ambition
seemingly defying death
when the opposite is true.

These men wearing breastless suits
no palace retained
for breathless hearts
a sham housing
Where souls belittle and burn.