WebPoems

This big hairy phallus erupts from the frame,

High on the ridge, where the travelers rest,

Sip soup, and laugh, trying to ring its trunk.

How active that member, surging

Up without a branch until it hits blue sky.

The rectangle cannot contain it,

Nor this steady cool breeze,

Nor the wind-bleached ground.

Down one slope, and up the next, the goddess runs,

Puffing steam, smoke, and lava tears, as

Thin threads of glass land around

Her dark top--she forms one cloud,

And bounces the others off, the drifters,

Stuck together and bunched like sushi rice.

Quiet as a geisha waiting for the lute,

Half undressed, her nipple hardening,

She puts her moist attention on this tree.

Fleas, these peasants scratch around the pine,

Contemplating the path itself, the bark,

The rocks that resemble thatch--

Not one looking out past the brush,

They miss the emerging sharp breast,

The discretely aroused Mount Fuji.