Tuesday, July 01, 2003
Listen! The children of the night!
the overheard orgasm
it's finally summer(aboutfuckin'time!)
and all our late-night open windows
allow out, allow in these wanderers —
these tasty and tangible introductions,
these dreamy-fine how-do-you-do's,
these louder than window fan,
sharper than pushpin
voices in the dark.
I was trying to sleep on the sunporch
night before last, sweaty hot
with casements cranked wide,
one dying breeze away from despair,
sticking to my sheets like Colorforms.
Not quite asleep, restless,
I had one eye and both ears open.
The trees were black on black
through the screens
and I'd already heard the usual sounds —
deer, raccoon, freeway, cat.
I turned over, half-wishing for moon,
for crickets, for frogs,
for wolves doing hairy acapella
in my neighbor's backyard.
And then (whatthehell?)I heard it —
Not a wolf howl, not skunk or frog,
just a woman's loud, long "Ahhh."
Not a word, really.
No "Oh, god!" or "Yes, yes!"
Just a long building cry,
just an "Ah, ah, AHHH!"
racing from her bed to mine.
I sat up. It was one o'clock
and there were no lights on anywhere.
Which house did that come from?
Which open window was hers?
No answer, no multiples.
She was there and flying.
She was happy and loud.
And she was gone.
Curiosity sits on my shoulder
like a horny parrot
as I drive down my street.
Was it you, mother of two?
Or you, the pale gardener
with the blood red roses?
Or you, the suburban lawyer
with the dumpy husband?
The elementary teacher? The CPA?
We wave. We all wave.
It's that kind of neighborhood
We stop to chat on after dinner walks.
We meet over watery lemonade
sold by kids on the corner curb.
I'll wonder. All week, I'll wonder.
Because all our late-night open windows
allow in, allow out these wanderers —
And with smiles all around, I wonder
if last night, (ohgodlastnight!)
did everyone hear us, too?
Thursday, April 24, 2003
Labia Love Poem
waterslide
see the pink'n nub, nubbin of pink pearl,
pearly pink and pearly wet,
slippery slick and pinkly wet,
warm and slidy slick, the pinkly slick slide?
of course you don't see — a matter of scale and perspective.
reclining, you are the breathless theme park
and your pussy the favorite E-ticket ride.
but imagine wet pink laughter.
imagine pale pink razor burn on your open white thighs.
imagine my tongue shooting down,
splashing in the pool
of pinkly, pearly you.
pink tastes of honeysuckle.
pink is slippery as Jello and warm
as a fresh orange cranberry muffin.
pink is a kiss and pink is a hearty bite.
I ride slide glide
dive arrive alive
in pearly pink and pearly wet,
slippery slick and pinkly wet,
warm and slidy slick
you, splendid tasty
you.
Monday, March 31, 2003
Poem for April, No Fooling
thirty-second flavor over Tokyo
the taste of your taste
is a sideways glance,
a pitch long into nuance,
a bit of salt and sugar,
lemon and sweat.
and the touch of that taste
is like the smooth slime
of an oyster
or the sweet skin
of a peeled concord grape —
the green under the purple,
the slick under the smooth.
burrowing in, I find
your center has become hard,
an uncooked pea
rolling gently
beneath a warm fruit roll-up,
bobbing like a float in the pond
where waves come
from breath on water,
from sounds rasping in air,
from exaltations reaching up from sheets
wet with communion
all cries breaking through the green vault
to the blue sky and on
to the heavens where God
hears its name
spoken again and again
with breathless love
and the resonance
of bare wooden floors.
afterwards, we bask
in a secular snack
of ice cream
and wet pink kisses.
echos, movements still circle below...
swirl, fudge swirl,
smacking of lips.
Friday, March 21, 2003
An Energizer Moment
There's a nice poem by Carissa Neff over at Nerve.com today. My Mother's Penis is about a young woman's discovery and secret sharing of her mother's hot pink vibrator:"... How many nights — lonely and wanting —
did you go to your penis and find it dead?
How many emergency flashlights, how many
babydolls' backs did you rip open in the fucking dark
searching for just two goddamn batteries with one
orgasm's worth of voltage left?..."
Monday, February 24, 2003
love like that
love's like toast and jam.
love's like sweet dark chocolate.
love's like old memories
and today's wishes—
it's like our past and presentslow dancing together...
bare feet
on the worn midnight rug,
lights out and gerbils asleep.
it's like a goodnight kiss
with eyes open wide.
and love's like our fingers laced together,
linked side by side by side
as we walk down the street
hand in hand at sunset
or later in bed
straining
to keep the one on bottom
from melting with joy,
aching
to keep the one on top
from flying away.
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ProsperoMassachusetts
Fascinated by language, drawn to art, and utterly amused by everyone's naughty bits. Beyond that, I'm hundreds of years old and I live on an island. Read the play.
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