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This morning, I found in my inbox a paragraph I wrote a while ago and once
tried (very unsuccessfully) to turn into a poem.  (Somehow, a close friend
had a copy of  it and e-mailed it to me.)  Since it somewhat does rhyme with
my Leonard Cohen post of a couple of days ago, I thought I would just type
it up.


In the end:  no matter how high the IQ, or how developed the literary
acumen, or the verbal acrobatics, might be; no matter what mystery exists
behind the blouse, or how the nipples might, at the slightest touch of
tongue tip, blossom in your mouth; no matter whichever ecstasies might await
your own Eros as he bends to that face which words can't touch,  to those
lips, and then, yes, her mouth; and later, as he kneels before the perfect
legs and enters Pooh's pot of honey; ultimately, no matter which or how many
frissons the skin-fields-of-paradise might ignite, in the end, it is the
eyes and the heart, only.  Only they, in the end, truly count.

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