April 7, 2013

NaPoWriMo 2013 # 7

art by Joel-Peter Witkin, ‘Chick in Hell’ 1999 ©



window staining the glass

lazy Susan atop
pine plank table
another center
of the universe
spins the hooker

she said it would be fun
I say would a line of coke
add to the festivities
she said it wouldn't hurt
and suddenly music was playing
it seemed loud and soft
at the same time
she was multiplying limbs
and I became lost
in a paddle fan history
as if this little vignette
was written in
street goddess take home
Peruvian pocket products
jump starting packet turns
everything bleeding
into fingered fulgurite
into kaleidoscopic
junkie paradises

the eyes of a thousand flies
are shoved into this one moment
and in order to feel something
on the other side I had to go
through each panel trapped
with stain and desire
I had to eat my way past
glitter and sweat
through a nose to navel routine
we had developed

she tasted like strawberries
it reminded me of the lip gloss
the girls in elementary school
would wave about
enticing me to steal
and I did, so I could
ask to clap the erasers
and secretly consume
them in my prepubescent sex fantasy
wrapped in a waxy deliciousness
painting a dormancy
from a time I already wanted
to be all grown up

I put my cheek
to her ribs
lightning flashing
a cold drip
down my throat
I was listening
to her breathe

she says can I feel anything yet
I said yes, I can feel it all
when in truth, I was
completely space capsule numb
inundated with visual information
things I could mis-describe
or rather re-orient myself to
with a feeling somewhere
deep inside a childhood moment
an interrupting brush
like a leaky faucet
turned waterfall
with white ghosts
chalking outlines
in the rhythm of her heaves
every fantasy I had ever had
as a school boy thief
every frame filled
was metal on memory
gaining a fleeting
fleeing bit of color

I knew this wouldn't last
or be very good for me
but at the same time
I realized, with my heart racing
and my soul on fire for more
that every once in awhile
I needed to be swept
over an edge

EJR © 

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