January 30, 2013

I put the emergency brake on, just in case I needed to break the glass...



                             Bel Air : watching the analog dials
          
       She said, can we go and find a place to park on the other side of the car hop…a place that makes me feel as if there’s a chance we can be caught with my unmentionables tossed in the front seat…and I said, with a smile, of course, where else is the thrill to be had than on the other side of that chain link fence with a Friday night racing between the thick legs of roller skating waitresses and the macho smells of roared exhaust and the shine of chrome and metal flecked paint…

    I nearly stood up on the brake, trying to look awake, rolling to a neutral stop…I wanted to find a hiding place, inside the bramble curry of the many things chance would come to find us with. As soon as I could, I rolled down the window and stuck my head out, it was nearly 50 degrees…who are you, I asked…to an eroding night sky…why are you still ripe with January, why are you so sure of the cold again…when we are in a swell of warm-front bellows and rain.

     I ask the sky again…why are your clouds racing by me…I am hung over and squinting at you with bad knees, bending to pick up the shiny gathers of my sleazy dreams spilling into remnant pulsed empty pursed desires. Just like me, they are wishing themselves into the daylight. I think, while I wade every morning through the omniscient sack cloth of Winter at night, that this embrace makes Spring the loveliest of all things. Rebirth and renewal are the colored eggs of the stirred foxes and their dens. We are the lusty fills that two imaginations can create, all the way through the back of this black BelAir wagon. The head room says these cars are big enough to steal away inside ourselves for a few hours…riddles of life being ridden and written…each of us crawl an arithmetic of skin and bones and I pretend not to be so lost in your scent…

     No matter where you go when its Spring time there is a feeling of wanting that will not abate, this feeling you must sate with the tilled-blading of womb-rich loams…between rolodex-ing corpuscle fantasies and wanting them, I pull myself closer to you…edging nearer…I hear you laughing, telling me that I look so serious when trying to act suave…I am unzipping my life with one hand while trying to kiss your neck, pretending not to look down at my fly, trying to free my cock to be inside you and while I’m fumbling with that, you know that is what I am doing, you know I am hoping you don’t notice, you know, you know, you know…so I start to laugh with you…biting down on your shoulder and nape...sliding my insistence forward…I am already breaching my levis and their toothy metal doors…I roll in the increments of madness, heavy breathing, sweat beading…like a clock surfing the waves…I am opening my soul with wrinkled, rumpled shimmying-anticipation…this is where is the music coming from…this is why am I already gyrating slowly…play acting my next moves…while I wonder through a smile, do you hear me musically or just poetically…I feel her hands on my head, bending her fingers into my hair...she’s holding me down...lifting her engine to a loud throttle…does she know that I know she is teasing the reins and that she is Brigid again…dancing the covered pine fires between time in gales and the pull of hope in a spread fingered warmth…

    We parked between the cold at the gasp end of this late January and what we say is its thaw…but who are we kidding…weather is the holy grail of unknowable, and science is merely the stuff we‘ve made up to disprove along the way…we have less ice on the polar caps, hotter temperatures and longer Autumns…we know Winter in the Northeast has got to go the way of angels and old growth forests…we pause in the plausible deniability of transient strip sod…this carpet green wound around asphalt and steel-electric arteries…we stampede for access to the gated luxuries, for success, for dash and grab thefts…some of us recess, leaping into the dark to look for things like being lost in salt tides, thirsting for the rain and stealing time enough to finish praying, some ninety days until Beltane...we howl at the Moon...pressing our fingers and lips through slip hems...we imagine everything slowing down to the speed of stacked bricks, with our bodies drawn up against them...each exhale is another color of paint, I say and you say that I am funny and I say...I ain't...I ain't...

EJR ©

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