These Hands are Deadly

It starts with the hands.
It always starts with the hands.
Other men have words.  I don't.
My words don't work.
My words don't work like that, they can't be planted
in such shallow dirt as your ears.
They won't grow there.
My words don't work there so
I don't plant them there.
I plant them in my mind and in creases
between pages, between journals, between ideas
and they flourish in the tight spaces there.
Tight like embraces.
Tight like anxiety flooding my lungs.
And when they blossom they come like springtime,
flowering through cracks in the sidewalk.
Through cracks in my ribs.  Flowering
through fluffy clouds on blue days
that look like my grandmother smiling. They look like
beautiful things.
And their fruit filled vines sprout from my ears
and my mouth
and my eyes
and crack masts on ships.  And turn every man
that ever made you feel less than what you are
into dolphins. My words are fruit
on a sacred vine.  Fruit
that will become a sacred wine
a wine called poetry.
I squeeze the fruit with my hands. It starts
with the hands.

It always starts with the hands.

These are powerful hands.
These hands are dangerous.  You should beware
of these hands.  Don't let them touch you.
Not even in handshakes.  Not even in touches to your shoulders or elbows.
Before you know it you'll be giving me your name
for no reason other than I asked for it.
That is the very first symptom.
That is how it starts.  With the hands.
Don't let these hands open doors for you
or pull out chairs for you.
Don't let these hands catch you when you stumble.
Don't let these hands offer you sweaters on cold evenings
when we are talking late into the next morning
about life, and the universe, and the things that are in it.
and the fog, and where it comes from, and the things that are in it.

Oh!  But if you're already here
then you've already fallen prey to these hands.
Perhaps you were foolish, but its more likely
you were tricked.  For these hands are devious.
These hands have nothing good on their minds.
You could tell when they brushed the hair from your face
that these hands really wanted to touch you.
And then, only to hold you
steady while these lips have their way with you.
And all the while these hands have been doping you
into something pliant.  So that you lie still
while they move from innocuous stings to
tracing smokey paths along your hips,
over your thighs,
up your belly,
down your back,
across your breasts.
And you will hold your breath until
these hands press electricity into you
and make your heart race.
And make your toes tingle.
And leave you gasping.
These hands will beckon you to come
like springtime.

And then you are done for.

Be very wary of these hands.

A Study of Hands

The worker's hands are calloused

all along the flat palm,

tough as tree bark

wearing down the saw's teeth.

The tool thinks itself superior

but like that calloused worker

its victories are all

long sough,

hard fought, and deceptively expensive.

Slowly, slowly, time consumes

leaving little more than

callouses and bone.

Be you made of iron-wrought flesh

or skin tough as nails, you'll know

with time and work

leaving a sawdust trail,

the teeth are the first to go.

The lover's hands are tender,

often more so at the fingertips.

Like hot smoke carried

on cool breeze it twists upon itself,

turning the surface while underneath

a greater heat rises,

gathers together

and boils the sweat,

siphoning lust

and distilling passion.

What remains is the smoke.

Tossed into the air

from fiery friction paths

traced by the lover's hand

along his lover's flesh

leaving them tender

often more so at the figertips.

The ash of the two lovers mix

and settle in the hair

(Where they both know the scent)

and mark the burned paths

(Where they can always be re-traced)

The poets hands are smooth and rough

at the palms and fingertips respectively

and often with a signle callous

at the first knuckle

of the third finger

from either direction.

The palms bleed constantly

like stigmata over stock paper,

pouring blood rich with

pain, pleasure, perseverance, and poetry

till its thick, black, and trailing

down the hand and into the pen

where it cannot be coaxed or cajoled

int extravagant words on plain paper.

It must be choked.

Pressed against that

lonely callous till it bleeds.

And like the worker,

and like the lover

There'll soon be little left

than a broken tool

a disposable body

and a spirit that lasts

in memory alone.