EVEisH

the ten-bit chorded off into the corner/struck in the back/bleeding/but nuzzled like a buzz/hope in the future/no future here/stuck in the soundless station of all the empty/so full of empty it’s empty/fistfuls swallowing the sweat/alongside the similarities next to the next/hands striking pubic bone and gristle/shining buttocks/nipples blown back/the bit bitten off like a carrot top/breath exchanged/then withdrawing/beneath the rag, ear, chin – blood/barely breathing now/grime of the shaft to the back of the gums/tethered still with teeth (still missing) but somewhere still champing at the butt/in the still corner a couple of cripples rest and restore one another with a salt snack of/salt/the semen kind/and regain one club foot over another until each are able to stand/on one another/and regain a fortune in the future

                 

she stands aloof/always with her hair in her hands/feverish/almost touching the tip of her tongue/she stays that way like a baby in a crib/rolling over the remnants of what she shat out/the night before/through saliva boiled over twigs and twine/she speaks/belly full of steam/”who’s the little beast-maker with the hands?”/heated by more flames/she falls to her knees/”like climbing back into my ass/all the better to make a cleaner fart”/she stalls above the slipcover/sandy head over creeping ivy/resting/pubic curls down to throttled thighs/she sits down/hands spreading the odor wide/fondling the fat of her baby’s belly/belching out the sound/of soft legs/youth/stiffening with each burst of putrid putty/-first/spewing out onto the open/”that be the story of an evening spent”

                                           


a tortured branch of philosophy/he fends of the chords and bites down on it/down with the phallus/down with the flank/against the back of the blonde worker/double backed/and bent over to take all that is given him/this is tender stuff/my boy/pressing cheek to saliva saddled cheek/there are things that can still crawl downwards/ellipsis/heads now buzzed/lifted backwards like buzzards/inside of the torso like a Sunday away/between arms/cocks paddling across lips and then cut/off from the lip/streaking across the bed like used floss/he burns down the silky wet with want/shot up with fear and distrust/hands on shoulders/pulling down/down/down with the rest of the between thigh mania/springing into the garden like a glans in the heat/scraping trust off of dried blood-stained sheets/always & quick

LATER/NOW

She was 44 and, no, not a woman

as such, but something that medicine

left nothing but bad stories and bloat.

That was on the day of the pushing.

*          *          *

She sucks up his talking and makes him

pay for it, like a summer singled out for

death, and harps on him for being him, now.

This on the same day that love coughs.

*          *          *

There were policies against such somewhats,

like the tender heart of November, always

caramelized together in mush and spice.

Odd pudding, he’d say, and nevermind.

*          *          *

She takes what a woman takes, alone

and to the point of the middle afternoon,

all day building a ceiling of honeysuckle and pouch.

She is that, that which compartmentalized her.

*          *          *

Thirteen days after the beloved, she velvetly

sweat out the rank and rigor of the bankroll.

The crippled cock, ordered like cheap Chinese.

The bars and shops of art and artifice, love.

*          *          *

Everything is orange and burnt and ember,

now a force that bleeds over the streets in

remembering and alternate remembering.

She is the ark and spark of a live wire.

*          *          *

Later, she will be the kind of woman who

men look at as a force of scare, an old Jenny

whistling like a kettle, the me sold solid of it.

Scared of words just because they exist in the air.

THE OLD MAN

He stands over the old man, still cooling off of the hot coals he had recently been toasted upon:  Now that he’s done, the young man says, I might as well tell him.

He tells him of the many mistakes he has made, of the many more he has yet to make, of the many, many more he will never, if ever, make. 

The old man rolls over to his side, scraping his crisping skin against the cotton, smiling, saying atta boy, atta boy and all.

Watermelons

My thighs have become so large they look like watermelons.

The American kind, the kind without seeds.

Children flock to our yard, when we hold our annual summer neighborhood bar-b-que.

The other adults in the yard yammer and banter about so-and-so and such-and-such and talk through their teeth as if they were spitting out seeds of regret, remorse, or some other word that starts with something.

Meanwhile, the children suck on my thighs like glue.

The Moment of Child

I was a child the moment you called me a child and I agreed.

I could, naturally, see the pickle you were in:  I was a grown man who had frauded his youth away on sex and liberal arts and now I was sitting in the corner, crying over the fact that I had nothing to make a dollar off of, and, as such, made you make your own dollar last longer.

There are a lot of things such things depend on, not least of all time and what that counts to. You didn’t know what my hands were doing while you were typing, and I didn’t know what yours were doing while I was once typing as well.

I was typing things that I thought would be good. You were typing things that made you good.

I just listened to hours of songs that we would always fall asleep to, and somehow wake up in each others arms.

We would condition the point to cold, that it was too cold to be alone on the floor while you were own the own the bed.

We would fall asleep listening to the same Radiohead songs, singing the same lyrics in our heads and maybe not, but we’d fall asleep and want to immediately brush our teeth, just beause that was what health wanted us to do, but I would rather just bite and apple and then you, with differencing, yet possibly similar, reactions simply depending on the apple itself, half torn a and half perfect.