Next Big Thing

I got tagged by Remica Bingham so I'll be participating in Next Big Thing Blog Hop. Hit me up in the comments if you want to be tagged.

What is the working title of your book (or story)? Among the Sounds

What genre does your book fall under? Whatever genre looks most like a King-sized bed.

What songs would be in the soundtrack for your book? I listen to a broad range of music so this is just a partial list:

Ain't No Sunshine -- Grover Washington, Jr.
Ain't No Sunshine -- Once Through
Ain't No Sunshine -- Bill Withers
Is it a Crime -- Sade
Adore -- Prince
She's Gone--Hall and Oates
Hope She'll be Happier -- Sweetback
Blue in Green--Miles Davis
Concierto De Aranjuez--Jim Hall
Your Song--Elton John
Sodade--Cesaria Evora
Um Paixaõ-- Tito Paris
Na Ri Na--Lura
Penny For your Thoughts--Tavares
I Write a Song--Earth, Wind and Fire
Palonkon-- Mendes Bros.
Love is Blindness -- Cassandra Wilson
Death Letter Blues -- Cassandra Wilson
Round Midnight -- Miles Davis
Wave--Ahmad Jamal
Love Ballade--Oscar Peterson
Lonnie's Lament--John Coltrane
Petrified to Be Godlike -- Suzie Suh
Thank You -- Lizz Wright
No Ordinary Love -- Sade
Be Good -- Gregory Porter

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book? This a detailed list of all the charges that desire (both requited and unrequited) have rung up in my ledger over the years.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency? I'm looking to find it a press.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript? Ten years and counting

Who or what inspired you to write this book? Powdered mini donuts, strawberry moons, scare cards on the River, my son's dimples and the wry smile of a certain young lady (cubed)

What else about your book might pique a reader’s interest? It's the most fun you can have with a book of poems (while remaining fully clothed)

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Where We Go

ROOM SERVICE SONNET

Maybe it was a sermon the inkjet night printed on our faces,
Maybe it was the psalm that fell from the radio like rain,
Maybe it was the trail of wine you traced on a stunned tongue
Maybe the way fingers browsed your moles like a Braille bible,
Maybe the way your hair preached the soft insistence of curls,
Maybe the nouns our falling clothes didn't know how to spell,
Maybe the adverbs the flick in our lips unveiled,
Maybe the way our fingers interlaced like cotton fibers,
Maybe the way my tongue warned of its warmth before moistening your pores,
Maybe the way the mirror steamed as we exercised our sighs,
Maybe it was the awkward face your hallelujah made,
Maybe the way my mouth stretched your name into a plea,
Maybe the way a fingertip quoted the length of a lobe
Maybe the way a glow sated our skin like a robe.

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Because

OF HER MIDNIGHT HAIR

Once while counting sheep
I got caught in 
the downpour of a dream
about the titanium needle 
of a woman's tongue
circling the groove of my ear.
Such is the melted logic of
moans, they kaleidoscope 
the conversation into
conch-like aphrodisiacs, 
places to sail off a cliff,
suspending the gravity of ecstacy.
Your voice felt woolly, not 
ashamed to be a sheep.
I thought I loved ewe,
but maybe I'm just a heroine addict.

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)