When You Bit... Outtakes 2
Would that you were closer,
that we each could roll
over
and beg to be petted,
loved,
rubbed & flown over,
above
what keeps us planted in
dirt.
I don’t mean to call you
a flirt.
I don’t mean to tell you
OK.
I can’t think of what I
can say.
The omens say Bon Appetit—
omens are closer than
meat.
What murmurs from Wicker
Park’s main street as we
are
up semi-fucking at dawn,
city
birds: they portend
concrete.
No little lame balloon-man
whistles far or wee, or even
has balloons. I sit near the
fan, feel like Dante's son
plucked by this city of
dreams into Hades. There's
no way this can be anything
but rote, my hip routine,
& even a fly's anus looks
more succulent. But, what
the fuck. I've got memories.
As I anticipate the wideness
of your limbs, quiet or not,
the shore I stand on is silent.
<< Home