In the Arms of the Dragon

Okay, me, I'm going to stand over here and mind my own business so no one blames me for the French drawing-room farce that has become the identity crisis of the Jaz era. Heh.

No, actually, I will take a side. Make way for the goddess. Perhaps Jaz is the Abstra he's been looking for. Perhaps not. But that is for those two decide, ideally in a locked room with plenty of soft surfaces to frolic on. He's going to smack me for that one, for sure.

To move things along, here's a non-request of a golden oldie, to set the mood.

In the Arms of the Dragon

I kiss the beauty of your complexities.
your scars are a familiar terrain
to my lips, cut as they have been
a thousand times for greater
and lesser crimes unpenanced.
I do not doubt your beauty
and in the arms of the dragon
you fit like a gem in the forehead
of a smiling Buddha, alive and dreaming
of new winds yet to blow and yet
you seem to know where, if not when
they will take you, make you
all that you are already in the arms of the Dragon.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.