Slick
inside and out
I feel the slide and want to
ride you all night long you're an
all-day-sucker
greased pole
afternoon
you are the blue
hour veiled and sweet
and melted now
like sugar on my tongue I want to
strum your
deepest
chord
and feel
vibrations
play my toes
oh, I want
all of you
to slip and slide
a passage
somewhere
else where we can
sing the song
nobody
knows
but us.
Ride
Let me roll this
padded bone
this
pudendum
up and down your chest
no, don't
get up, don't
move.
I feel
the humped up
love of you
here,
at the end of my
long stroke. Almost
belly to belly, now
my cheeks spread
close
to it,
on either side-
throb-sandwich and this
sundial
of your lust
that says it's time
to shuck
those
silly pants...
Slain In Spirit
If I had a pulpit,
I'd preach you; all I got is this small space
below the face
in the middle of the chest
to beat your words
like war drums
pounding
'Thumb's Up!', 'Soup's On!'
'Fire! Fire!', world on fire
because
you rubbed your words
together. Come
enjoy the burning
down
the place
we thought we knew.
When Thinking Makes Me Sweat
Horny. Don't know
how it starts
a beehive
buzzing, low and fuzzy
somewhere
in my
belly,
no-
lower
than that.
An electric, lazy
butter wrapped in
cinnamon, sticky, persistant hum
impossible
to ignore.
It warms and warms
and circles
then,
my fingers feel it.
Need to touch
the buzz
of it,
fuzz
wetting its own lips
for what is
coming-
Hard.
Truck
First time I saw
fucking
I was seventeen.
In 1969, a car ride
after work
brought the Impala
I rode in round a bend.
Stopped
for a light.
A hairpin curve
maneuvered, then a sight
that burns an image
on my retinas
I still see to this day: a truck parked
at the curb
with a couple
in the front.
A girl astride a man, her face turned
brazenly to me,
to all the world.
..........Her body
..........bounced.
Her face
without expression
save intensity
to see who stared
and wanted either
what she was
or what she had to give.
Athletic
bounces.
Earnest on the lap of
whom she fucked. The truck
made groans
like those that breeched his throat
- his head thrown back and open-mouthed
he looked in pain.
With eyes shut tight, the jaw
clamped closed as seizure swept him
suddenly,
she smiled at me still
bouncing
landing softer, thrusting,
eyes aglitter. Perfect
pout of lust.
The sunlight
on the windshield
moved
when she did
and the sky itself, reflected there
was shifting
- fornicating
boldly, in broad daylight
as she fucked not only him
but me
the day
and all the world.
When I am full of lather now,
when I feel I could clasp the earth
between my thighs, hump life
I see his
spasmed jaw. Her curving mouth
..........that truck
..........that day- her hips
have taught
me well.
Me And The Boy
Yard's a mess of April
detritus; can't put off the clean up
so today I raked dead needles
from the base of the pine I swear is leaning
forward, toward the house
much more than last year; get a crick in my neck
just looking up to try and find the top. It towers
much too high for safety; wind will take it,
wind takes all.
Knees creaked loudly, knee
decrepitus, or
joint mice, I suppose it's one of those
aging
things I've noticed, one of many, like the way
my pants, the discards with the knees out
used to fit my ass but were
tearing,
ever so slightly as I bent to pick up pine cones, bits of
empty nests, the occasional cigarette butt
that I'd flung, too tired to bring the thing
into the house and mash it
in an ashtray. What I've found is
that of all things, neatness' slide into untidiness
is far too easy; still, it was
a lovely day for yardwork, being out there in sun. I
like
to be alone. I raked and thought about this and that,
lost in thought, sun beating on my head till I looked and
spied a chubby boy, eleven years old, a neighbor
who lives farther down the alley. He was
standing at the edge of the carport, called out, "Hey, it's a
nice day, isn't it? Your house,
it sure
is nice- this carport, too!"- and so it went; there wasn't a thing
about the house, the lawn, the peeling paint,
the glimpse inside of what, he said, 'looks exactly like a cabin!', didn't suit
that boy
right down to the ground, and with a "let me check with my mom" he lugged his mower up, and was so happy
working beside me; work suited him, too.
His full cheeks pinked
and he was squinty-eyed as an eskimo, and before I knew,
I felt my whole life lift
with that kid: sometimes,
kites are people.
Setting Out For Parts Unknown
To sacrifice
what breath you have
on breathing one small space
however fragrant will deprive you
of the broader air. Tightly wrapped to
shrimp shape, curled and stymied
all the foot-bound ones
who cannot run, I say
'Here is my back- it's time.
Let's go.'
I know of water
up ahead
and air
and even light. I know.
I know.
Vacation
Nothing like the feeling
of the work week's end-
knowing that on Monday
I will step into a day conformed
to nothing
but my own
still young capacity
to lift the heart above the lead,
head anywhere I choose.
A bottled year-a week is what
it is, but seems so infinite,
this Friday
on the limping edge
of Fettered-ville.
I'm sawing at the chains
and singing loud.
Monkey Paws
You said
that I have
'little hands'-
with clever little fingers.
They look silly
if you ask me. Stubby, practically
double-jointed digits, not big enough
for half an octave; monkey paws.
But
they can
open up
your heart...
as neatly as a surgeon's
scalpel, millimeters from your skin,
the heat
alone,
can cut.
Modern Primitive
I think of 'Quest For Fire'-
how caveman acted,
lightning bolt to groin;
observed the female,
bare and bent, washing in the stream, her rump
high in sunlight, moving as she scrubbed.
How quickly then, he covered her
ratcheted tight and humping
as he pounded his own sunlight into what
was dark and beckoning. A kind of dawn
they had, I think,
behind the eyelids, bursting
where the words won't even fit,
only room enough for stars and heat,
and just now,
bent beneath you,
I was she, and you were urging me
to rock us back
to where we'd both begun.
....From The Tree Of