prose poetry

What do you want, Judy?

2008-08-21T05:41:14+00:00

After the last day of school, all those long nights of leisure left me. All those days sitting in humid classrooms, looking out the window at the coeds gone. Now I am on a bike, cutting through traffic to make it home in enough time to catch a plane to Brussels. Of course, the flights not until late, but even so, I have all my packing to do, and my buddy Dan said he's stop by with his truck and pick the stuff up I'm leaving.

I ride low over the bars, keeping eyes on the D.C. cabs, shuffling in an out of traffic, ratcheting my shoes in their toe clips. I grind a little up 17th, sweat burns my eyes, pitch my bike right down P street, and finally stuff it into the elevator, and onto the rack in my efficiency. The machine is blinking so I press the its black rubber button and, after a long shrill beep, its Judy:

"Mike Š meet me at Julio's at six. I hope I catch you before you leave; if not, call me when you get there and have a safe trip. Ciao."

It is about six ten so I shoot down to the restaurant on the corner, hoping she is gone so I can pack. At the entrance, under a forest green canopy, and stand above Judy as she sleeps on a white brittle table, her long shiny hair pooled into the triangle her arms form as she rests on them, so I slap my palms down and she jumps about a mile, almost hits her head on the sky.

"Hey babe," I say while she's in the air.

She comes back down and I take off my courier bag and drop it with my radio down, it screams with static so I switch it off.

"Made it, huh?" she said, "where's your bike and where you off to without telling me!"

"Who told you?"

"Well it was Jess, she said you're out of here, I'm pretty surprised you didn't tell me. I mean, what does it tell me?"

"It tells you that I know you and it would have been better if you'd have found out after I settled," I say and then sit down in the chair across from her.

Even then I am too close as the tables are only a yard across. The molded plastic settles under me and the legs skitter and splay. I lean back and the chair complains more until it braces into grooves in the floor. I can smell myself even over the thick strings of garlic and Parmesan, the tomato paste and olive oil. I really need to take a shower. My beeper vibrates against my hip. I look and the number is Dan's. I click on the radio and press transmit, holding the receiver close to my ear:

"Six-three Š six-three Š"

"Go ahead six-three," answers the antennae'd brown box.

"Hey, beep Dan for me and tell him to meet me at Julio's, over." I wait and listen to runs going out to five-seven and triple- seven, I hear four-oh testing his radio saying copy Š copy? I feel Judy staring at me and I tell her just a sec with my forefinger.

"As good as done, six-three. Out," answers dispatch after a few. I switch the box off again.

"Talk to me, babes," I say a little gruffly.

Judy just sits there staring at me and I wonder about why she wants me to be with her now before I leave. I feel her still looking at me, so, as a game, I try to hold her gaze. Her eyes are black and make her look ghostly; they are deep-set in her head and their dark lashed are as thick, dark, and long as raven feathers. She only wears eye-liner and it's heavy today. I notice these things as I stare, as my eyes get dry and thick and the blood comes to my face. I turn away.

"What do you want, Judy," I say a little furtively.

I slap my fingers in a thick funky beat upon the acoustic table top. She grabs my hand to stop me and I wonder whether that was part of my plan. Just then, Danny saves me with a cup of Café au lait and I roll my eyes at him, he gives me a wink. I pour some sugar in the deep soup bowl cup and stir it in with a spoon from the place setting.

"Brussels, huh?" she says, knowing I know that she knows exactly what the story is.

"Yeah," I say, "permanently and forever and I could say you can visit me, Judy, but I would just be being polite."

"Oh yeah, fuck you too," she says and tries to grab my hand again, though I lift the cup to my lips before she can clasp it. They are clammy in spite of the weather, in spite of my feeling uncomfortable and a little claustrophobic under the awning and wedged into that bear-trap chair. Sweat dribbles from my pits so I press my arms down to try to stem the flow.

"Listen, Jude, I have to pack," I say as I empty the last of the froth and kick the chair out from under me. It tilts over and bounces and vibrates. It emits a buzzing until I pick it up and place it under the table.

I turn my back and head outside, taking a big sigh, and look up at the summer sauna DC overcast. I feel the clouds when I breath and wonder if someone in the clouds sees me in clouds instead, its so humid. I always feel the rivers that course down Penn. and crash in falls down Capitol hill. When I'm finally in the jet, doing the tourist pass over the monuments, I will ask the sky-waitress for some booze and whether she sees all that water covering the capitol city..

Judy startles me when she clasps her arm through mine.

"You know, this is the way lovers walk together in Europe," she says, her head cocked up, her stride lengthening to mimic the flippant Europeans.

"Ça va mon ami la-trah-la," she lilts and presses her hip to mine. I give her the hip butt and she laughs, although I don't want her to and she comes close again. I swing the heavy sack from across my back to her side, and the I get to the entrance door and she gets in, into the elevator too, and then in the apartment.

"What?"

"I just wanted you to know that it is time to tell you that since I met Mark, I hadn't met anybody else, you know, it was no problem. You see, nobody at all and I looked at him and knew it. I mean Mark and I have been together for a long fucking time and all that, but when I met you it was different. I mean, you are the first guy I met since Mark who I like," she said drawing close to me, face to face, her face tilting upwards.

"This isn't fair," I say a little under my breath.

"Wait," she says, "I have to get this off my chest, you know. I have to get it out of me before you split."

I only get out, "but Mark."

She closes in and kisses me with soft lips, on the mouth and presses her hand into the nape of my neck to pull me closer. I finally release me muscles and allow my body closer. I feel the tips of her breasts brush against my ribs and I try to embrace her.

But she wriggles free and turns and disappears down the hall, "Bon voyage, mon ami, la la la!"

By the time I get downstairs, Judy is in her VW Rabbit, pulling away from the curb. Mark, the bastard is in the passenger's seat, his torso hanging out the window, showing me I'm faced by covering his hand with his face.

"Eat it, sucker!" he yells.

I start running after the car. Judy slows the car, teasing me with stops and starts. She lets me get right up along the car, Mark is still hanging out and laughing his head off. I rush up, and in one sweep, pull out my U-lock and smash in the rear window. It crackles and popcorns inward and I stop quick and yell:

"Eat that, you fucker!"

I stand there, U-lock in hand, shaking a little. I hear a bleating behind me and it is Dan in his pick-up. He's laughing but I'm not. I jog up to the truck and hop in the bed.

"Take me for a ride, Dan, I need to cool off."

Dan peals off and almost looses me off the truck's bed, but soon he is down 14th and we check out the monuments for the last time together.

mindspoo

2008-03-22T10:41:21+00:00

Omens are startling in their persistence. They talk softly or loudly, through others or from within. They are all from you. Omens have never been anywhere else but of you; yet, they are the part of the self which is the Other -- the part that is best ignored because it never screams Essential, neither screams life nor death. Never complains and never haunts. Omens are willing to guide but cannot compensate for the lack of Love or attentive heart of one who travels his Journey alone: without the love of another; without the love of oneself; without the blessing of God; without the favor of the Muses; without the map of the Fates and their wispy destinies.

To fight against the tide is to perish; to work with the force of the sea allows one to slide effortlessly; to harness the sea one need neither strength nor mobility -- only sensitivity to the movement, to the energy; to the freedom and the fear around you -- for everyone expresses the concept of freedom; yet, their fear is not freedom.

Striving for that which exists not; fearing the shadows; noticing the anger and the hatred in the self attracts the hatred and fear in another's. Sometimes I look at a man. The man smiles at me. We become friends, yet he is not at peace. He sits there telling me stories, showing me his restlessness. Showing me his fear.

One man said, "When I was young, like B., I walked the streets. I walked these streets alone, needing to be anonymous. I walked alone late at night when no one was about. I covered my head and my skin and only left my eyes bare but cast downs. Every time I looked up, I caught the eyes of Hate: his eyes shined with territorial rage; his eyes shown with hatred and revenge; his eyes looked at me, sending shivers through my pride. I never needed to ask -- never needed even to posture. There were fights -- always occuring against the same demon. A very different person, really -- every one of them as single minded as a bull; yet, in their eyes the flames licked and it was Him, the same essence I fight every night. And blows are given and received. When the morning comes I rub the wounds and then move on. I was fighting myself, maybe; and it was my energy of violence and fear; of insecurity and rage, that attracted this demon who was always giving battle: for what? sport, territory, my soul?"

He said, "And I see this in the eyes of B., and I see this rage and this fear of loss of pride and loss of face to be the same as the fear one has for the loss of Faith or the loss of Life -- they are always alive in some form, and immutable. No matter how one shames oneself or one's people, there is never any loss of Self; there is always another day of life there and if one is able to remain in the moment yet still retain the lessons of the past without harbouring them, then one may realize that the mistakes are of God, that the defilement and the loss, the fear and the loss of face, the evils perceived of travesties against man and God are only excuses to make more terror and more war and more disturbance to a World who only aspires towards Balance and Calm. More war, death, famine, and inequality has come from the desire of man to be God; of man to retain the sense of pride and face and self -- when in fact the entire movement of man is to become faceless, selfless, fearless, and without pride -- to become less fatigued by the slag which is man and more attuned to the real ore for it is the ore which it prized and never the slag; the refuse to refuse. This is essential; this is Love"

Suprisingly, there is very little slag sullying the ore. Most believe we are highly flawed, that we must reduce ourselves to the essential and that we have but a spark of Life and of Beauty and of Perfection. This is not the case. These are but lies. Just like a gadfly robs the host of its focus and peace; just like the bite might convince the host that there is nothing in existence but the itch; just like the hunger for the sun, drink, food & drugs becomes more than self: the whisper of addiction is so much slag, measured in grams whilst the body, in pounds; yet, the gram rules the body and only this gram is imperfect and introduced. Imperfection is introduced. Like all thoughts, imperfection is merely the result of smoke and mirrors; bells and whistles -- the "essential" non-essential. Forever focused we are on these things: the blemished and not the clear; the rotten and not the healthy. More compelling is the rotten -- one might beg -- but still of the slag and not the ore: imperfect. The pain of the mouth bitten, the pain of the thorn in the paw. The large pains one may endure more easily -- a hundred miles cycled yet the blister pains and is the slag; like the self, the slag is but a small easily-healed sore (just burst the blister, cleanse, and bandage). The Essence is Perfect: ore more precious than gold, platinum -- uranium may be a closer mineral for it is of energy and always affects the surrounding space. But even uranium half-lives into death; uranium is of slag and poison so the comparison is a mirage, a shadow.

Our personal energies irradiate others. We touch them with our energy; we touch them with the core even more severely. Through the eyes, the mouth, the touch, the kiss, the coupling. Often, this poisonous stone is not aware of its power; the wind knows not of its erosion; the sea knows not the power of its waves. And most are not aware of the poison of the ore and the steps needed to be protected. Each thing being what it is, its essence, is content with its power.

To the Waves, its movements are gentle because every movement is small or nonexistent as the sky is forever larger and the shore is resilient. To the sun, its powers are easily absorbed by the velvet void of space; to the wind, its movement is easily funneled by the crags and valleys of the great mountains and yet the mountains are easily carved by the waters, by the sky wind and man -- for the mountains see themselves not as impassable but as eternally vulnerable and forever reducing and sometimes expanding like the breath we share with the wind; the sea; the mountains and the earth. Contract; expand; contract; expand -- like the tide, like the half-life; like the volcano; and like the seasons: life, death; phoenix, fire. Like the breath. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

These are simple laws of nature and easily learned yet never trusted: only by a few sometimes -- but all of them knowable. Even the river, appearing to merely ejaculate, replenishes from the dry air, the air each meter holding but a spray of moisture then filling the great lakes and ice floes that cover and carve even the tallest of mountains. Then the river ejaculates its lifeblood into the waiting sea, replenishing its cycle one more.

And still we worry and fret; surely we have right to, but even the loss of the rain forest is essential for it will teach us many things: loss, hunger, thirst, protection. Another thing forgotten: we are of the world -- as much as we believe that the habits of the ocelot is so very pure, we are like the ocelot. Our behavior is as normal as that of the noble elk. We are doing exactly what we were meant to do... we make war, we kill and sustain; we grow and contract; we kill and are born; we live and we died; we Love and create Life; we leave even the earth and always return to the essence that is of the World. When we desire to protect the earth but the earth desires to protect us. We hurt the world and the world can become cruel.

Better to look into the mirror.

Our movement amongst this earth is interesting and useful. We will neither solve nor attempt everything that is right or wrong. These concepts are non essentials. We may, like all statisticians, massage the results of our concepts: we will forever redefine the parameters of our goodness and evil.

So, to fight for what is right; or to fight against what is wrong is foolish. Its like fighting the tide. It is foolish to fight for God for God is of all and for none. War is. Peace is merely a lull between wars. War is compelling. It cuts through the slag for a second and allows an Essence to radiate. That essence is poison. For one who believes that war is not of God and is not of Love is mistaken. But war is not God. Only Love is God. Other "important" occurences are distractions: the receeding pate of the rain forest, the injustice of man towards man.

This physical world people find so compelling to measure with the most finite and infinite of tools. The Slag. Better to spend a dollar for a mirror and stare into it; better to walk along the beach and pick up a grain of sand on which to contemplate; better to sit repeating Om; or to raise a family and to look into their eyes than to look into the heavens or spend a finite life putting such a superb focus into the measuring of dynamic energies with but a ruler and scale; a glass and a compass.

For we know that the constants change, yet our tools always measure this change the same. When looking at the same Essence the same way with the same understanding of what is to be seen, what could be seen else what is known -- what is expected. The constant is called a constant for it is known as unchanging; therefore, the calibration will always be made so as to fit.

The yard will always be a yard and the meter. We attribute them to the schematics of the map, the blue pencil of the blueprint; the subtle lines of the universe on the RGB screen showing the dog star and the ends of the galaxy. We need them; on them we rely. With these tools always changing with that which is studied, there will always be the relation; the relation will never disappoint for the world always falls captive to the tools.

The universe falls to our wills. Not in truth but in perception. It is always itself but when we perceive it, the majority rules. We are a perception/reality democracy wherein everybody votes even when choosing not to. Even in their consensus reality. We are a majority rules and the consensus dictates. It does not make reality, it defines what we perceive as such -- and our desire to bring into our realm of perception. Nothing ignorant of our consensus puts any credence in our Reality.

We are devising a beta max. We are devising a laser disc. We are devising a PCS in a world of GSM -- a nonstandard standard. Supposedly, through iron will and personal investment totalling the total of what we hold powerful and rich, we aspire to make this nonstandard ubiquitous. and it shall never be. We export fear to attain control and kill to retain it; yet, these things mean not -- only to those who hold either the past or the future dear. Those who hold dear their ideas; their prides, their face; their dreams; and even their destinies too tight are the fools and shall fall in ruins.

And ruins they shall only be to themselves. After this and that plight; after this or that of the seven seals is opened; after the Saviour comes and goes; after all our our dramas are played out; and when the light called sun is extinguished and our meat perishes under the dead sands of earth, then we shall be still of It; we shall still hold high and bright our Essence, our Souls, and these shall not be of slag and not be in heaven or in hell but shall be of God who is of Heaven and of Hell. And then all shall be no closer or farther way from Rapture, from Nirvana, from Salvation than ever before. One has never been away from that which is perfect and that which is God not of God; which is Love and not of love.

So these Omens are always talking to you, protecting you and showing you the way -- your way -- alone and distant from the consensus. There is that which will be perceived as tests and these are merely conflicts between your Essential Journey and the journey which man has decided for you. These are not tests so much as simple binary choices and there will always be signs. Their clarity is akin to the goodness of the senses; if one can see they are large and sharp; if one can hear, they are loud speakers singing gentle direction; if can can feel then the heart will stir and the fingers will touch and the feet will know. If one thinks, then one is closer to the wrong choice than the right. "Right" and "wrong:" these are absurd concepts. There is neither wrong nor right: there is the path of man and there is the Way. Neither is wrong and they oft intersect and sometime touch for a while or at least follow parallel; when they diverge one must chose. One must look, listen, and feel for the path to take and the truth whispers while the lies scream.

***

and when these things are followed -- these Omens, these blessings, this guidance, this magic, then one is not superior but is merely more essential -- closer to the bone and closer the the self and even more powerful as one than is the consensus. the consensus is like a team of rovers paddling against the waves whilst you move with the sea. 1 billion rowers will never tame the sea as successfully as one who knows Her.

You Sit to Write

2008-03-22T00:04:09+00:00

You simmer before the page,
Ruminate about a tree,
In November, on a cold bench,
And ratchet a pen
Between your fingers.

Words crunch through
The gravel at your feet and dapple
Upon the page in cursive,
Evoking the spires of trees.

At your desk, pressed against
A clammy pane of glass, a mirror,
You strain to perceive differently
But words retreat; the page is still

Clean in your room at midnight;
But you need to write down
Your crashing thoughts,
And then comes day
And the Muse neither visits your pen
Nor your paper.

Brittle

2008-03-17T11:43:22+00:00

we ambled along the
crunchy surfaces
of the hard lava.

the sun was late
we help bags of cameras
and flashlights

sulphur and steam
scratched the vog hazy
sky like signals

ropes and cones
directed us to the
molten pourings

Mauna Loa, Kilauea,
vents, to the sea, more
mileage for the Island

we couldn't see the
soft stone from deep
below once magma

for the sea was far
and the foot holds were
perilous, the air cold

we wore hiking boots
we wore short pants
we wore t-shirts

we wore windbreakers
around out middles but
the head from the nearing

lava was like the sun mid
day on a windless deck
on a windless summer day

covered in asphalt
covered in asphalt
covered in asphalt

a mid summer say
windless and sunny
covered in asphalt

we had seen petroglyph
we had seen where women
offered umbilical cords

this place has mana from
pele, the goddess of fire,
of this cauldron

I hid my face behind
the viewfinder of a nikon
people warned of splattering

i inched in backwards
i felt fingers on the backs:
my thighs, small of back

whirled around for the shot
a single shutter release
and then back

two pretty girls from the UK
stood a few feet away and I
became more daring for them

i was with my lover but two girls
from the UK -- i had to do it
to slip up the older man with them

the sun wavered then set
the red lava broke free
repeatedly and each time

elated gasp and then children
took rocks and stones and hurled
them into the fissures.

thunk and then nothing the
lava was not even close to
liquidity. Viscous Viscous Viscous

and then the fissure broke and fingers
flitters through bright neon red like
the sign for live nudes on bourbon

a little honey all that black
velvet and red neon, but
of itself: flamboyant extreme.

the hard crusty french bread
pahoe'hoe lava beneath our
feet hot like from an oven

a warning sign: the dangers of
sulphur -- the dangers of sudden
fissure, of death of maiming --

warnings to pregnant mothers
two british nannies i showed
off for and my girl and hot lava.

lava surfing consists of parking a car
walking 200 meters with a flashlight,
looking for a while as sluggish

viscous
viscous
viscous

hot hot hot hot lava lava lava
pahoe'hoe, a'a, pahoe'hoe, a'a
crunch brittle shell

and then its over and you can't find the
British nannies but you have your lover and
you share a torch (for each other)

get into the car and
drive off and then lie
as to how difficult it has been.

Burnt Sky

2008-03-17T00:05:57+00:00

The sky burnt the sea into a clear sweat pool. The white boat gently bobbed, its bow set and its stern swinging around in the slack current. Emerald rocks spired from the crashing surf not a hundred yards from the blazing white hull; the new rock of pummeled lava showed clearly through prism liquid sea, exposing cracked and creviced valleys and fissures; exploding colored darting fish schooled and angled their mirrored flanks against the sun, blinding and disorienting, expanding and contracting, snapping up mouthfuls of coral and plankton. The sharp knifed wings of the tern sketch parallel lined in the water as the bird skims the waves, eyeing fish shallow enough to touch the smooth surface, dropping its thin beak briefly past meniscus to pick off the unwary.

A sudden release of pressurized air startled the bird and it zig-zagged and arched away from the vessel; rising up and over its close fiberglass helm and stern. From that height, the stern appeared to be filled with brightly colored gum balls, attached by hoses, pressed into rows astride glassy benches. Three men press themselves into matte-blue one-piece neoprene suits, running water between the tight rubber, tugging zippers up and around rough torsos, wrestling body parts into their snug confines. A blond man sits before his pink tank and slips his arms under the metal shoulder harness, securing the belt tightly into his waist. A man with close-cropped gray hair helps him dead-lift the tank, straightening the hoses, and leads him to the back of the boat. There the blond sets the fins onto his feet, their long thin blue planes flexing and bowing into the water. He presses the mask to his face, gently placed the piece in his mouth, checks his air, and flings his body out and away into the

Catch and Release

2008-03-16T23:59:56+00:00

She only came into my life when I was unprepared. Even after making certain I kept it together for months, even a year once, she outwaited me and always reappeared right when I went to pot. Went to pot. Lost my shit. Let it all go and then she appeared. Mind you, she wasn't some sort of angel. She never arrived just in the nick of time to save me from some catastrophy or another. Quite the contrary, she would always fuck me worse than I had ever been fucked before or since. She was no big woops, empirically. She was not the goddess but the vixen. She was not the amazonian, but the faerie.

To my mind's eye (I never got a picture of her -- never thought of the camera when she was around for reasons you'll discover soon enough) she was all hair and slender limbs, she was all middrift and rosebud breasts. She was all addiction and 12-step, she was all drugs and deficieit. Her heavy chocolate hair cut in a blunt bob. The smooth dough of her slender form, the thin fingers, the graceful hands. The bright doe eyes with a sharp edge which never belied the lie of her posturing. She was pale flanks and black cloth cut to her form. La femme tout en noir. Lipstick librarian with glossy lips and wire frame specks. Lunettes. Donna Karan. Yellow slicker -- even the towels in her bathroom are black. In my mind's eye. Petite. Tiny teeth, little cheeks, think neck, slender thighs I can almost wrap with my hand. Hips, belly, and the arch of the back. It was her hair that ensnaired me. It is always the hair that get me.

When she first walked into my life, she was another boy's girlfriend. Whenever she walks into my life, she is always another's -- she has never been mine. I should have guessed. She get physically ill whenever she is away from her addiction for any lenght of time. And since she is not addicted to drugs anymore, she is addicted to her boyfriend. I am addicted to her; I always crave. I am addled by her. I feel the sickness of love, I feel the sickness of hate: they are the same and it is forever nausea for me. It contracts my intestines. I makes me vomit, it pressed the muscles into pressures that make me rush to the toilet and express some sort of Freudian "acting out." Never used to use physchobabble until her. Until she injected me with she, until the veins of my body were infected by the girl from San Francisco until the 12-step heroine.

padded cell

2008-03-16T15:18:53+00:00

padded white cell. we sit in a circle, indian style. we wear starched white clothing. A soothing voice comes over the loud speaker and says, "share your feelings, share your ideas, express, express. it is here where the limitations of the outside are no more and you are protected. there is love here, just let yourself be." an orderly wipes a bit of spittle from your cheek, but the room is warm and the sun comes in yellow and crisp. it touches your hair.

skin crawls

2008-03-16T14:16:36+00:00

my skin crawls. the hair is greasy and falls well without a comb. wearing black is the answer. scrubbing out the white stains from rubbing a morning mouth. seeing the hours pass. immovable. orangina and vienna sausage. i'm on a roll; i'm on a roll this time. i feel my luck could change. 1998. the time is exactly opposite in OZ. pull me out of an air crash. i am your super hero. we are standing on the end. lyrics spinning from the large speakers. _The Breast_ is the name of a novel. it sits beside me. I wrote the number of a woman into its inner back cover. a 212 number. the breast. a man wakes to discover he has become a breast. he is placed in a sling which looks remarkably like the cup of a man sized brazier. suck my nipple. lick my nipple. its all he can think. he think he's insane. thinks his woman will leave if all he wants or needs in his life is to have his enormous red nipple incessantly molested. thank you mr. philip roth -- we indulge ya something awful you brilliant son of a bitch! orangina. javascript. hopkins. wintel. some things when i think about the way my mind works caught up in this parallel processing mind of ours looking for pi, searching for the ideal form, realizing that no matter how well turned a foot, no matter ho tight an abdomen, no matter how arched a back and how pert a breast, this is but a shadow, this is but an insult to the form. and then i ask, as might have stephan, what in hell are we going to so as to turn our back and bear the light? in photography, the only thing one can capture while facing the light is a silhouette! no matter what, even when turning towards the ideal form, one may only still glimpse the outline filled with ink. fill flash. pop. but that is part of you, now --pushing your own waves and particles so its not perfect any more. evian. high and dry, radiohead. don't leave me high; don't leave me dry.

two jumps in a week i bet you think that'[s pretty clever don't you boy flying on your motorcycle watching all the ground beneath you drop you kill yourself for recognition you kill yourself to never ever stop you broke another you are turning into something you are not don't leave me high don't leave me dry don't leave me high don't leave me dry. drying up n conversation you will be the one who cannot talk when all your insides fall to pieces you just sit and wish you could still make love they're the ones who hate you ... lost the lyrics -- can't keep up...

street

2008-03-16T13:56:10+00:00

the dark yawning street. vibrating under the bellies of pornstars. the intense green neon vulva. water runs in urine streams down the walk, dividing and combining around the legs of this or that cafe table. figures work through the cracks. the bodies speak here. they make my cock vibrate with anticipation. the lycra press of soft skin flesh perfumed by the sun. a woman sits there leaned forward from the hip as she fills out the application for a shit cafe job. her tight black hiphuggers ride down and the smooth butter small of the back smiles through. the tan is in the form left by the thong. the Y of white, pale dough made instense by tight tanned buttocks showing to either side of the letter's shaft. pinned me to the wall; crept into my wanderers insouciance. i cannot just stand there watching. the movement of the flesh is fixing to overtake the controls left on autopilot. but the flame. the little blue prick of flame. the pilot light. should never go out. yes and no. one would like sometimes. a friend of mine though of extinguishing and did, so he thought. felt at one; felt desireless. put in harm's way he was indefatigable. and then it happened: cacophony or sexual steel ribbons snapping. from cold to hot to cold too many time without allowing for expansion space. his mettle had become brittle through no fault of his own. strong gent. powerful. twas larger than himself. the crescent navel; the crescent earl the crescent hip, the crescent lip; the crescent mouth; the crescent: such a comely shape, a form which must be met and completed. the two halves of lovers' pendant broken in half to be rejoined. a david matthews melody. no matter how modestly done, a man will always noticed the flash of thigh, the patchwork of crotch between legs realigning. A neckline showing a pink bud for a nano, dare not guess how many have feasted upon it. the curve of the back the arch of the form, the bending from the hip; the discontent when bent from the knees or even the back. or i notice at least. where may the velvety pink tip touch? the eye is more vigorous and less forgiving and so much harder and lively. my eyes stroke feverishly given the time and privacy; i don't take being caught very well. the young australian woman can in to the drom room. she was blond and her form was smooth and white. her breasts small but full but it was her hips I adored. The way her hips and buttocks moved in skirts, moved in loose pants. the way her pelvis tilted in jeans like she was always bending and arching back straight. she entered the room and I watcher her move to the bed. dorm room. tanktop and loose elasticized pants. she deftly removed her bra from under her shirt. laid down in bed, placing her legs under covers before she removed her pants and replaced them with sweats. She then turned towards the wall and as the lights from the street outside kept the room in dark shades of gray, she pulled off her tanktop and allowed the night to play across her shoulders and back. she stayed like that for a moment and then slipped on the PJ top and buttoned and laid down and fell to sleep. By far, that moment, even without seeing more than her back, was the most erotic and delicious moment that I can remember.