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The Sensual Details Surrounding The Anecdotes
It was his country because
he liked its women
and because he whispered in my ear
words he barely understood.
But we were ghosts
speaking dead languages.
Then pinholes of light
began safing me.
Drink, drink, they would melt into my ear.
Formulate a liquid answer
to a lie and stick to it.
Fib your way into that feather bed
and sleep like a voluptuary.
Deny them
nothing you would deny yourself.
Feel that double negative inside
then rush it.
Sacrum bent like a dog about to be blindsided
by its own heat.
By a rush of fists and wheels.
Then grind the brakes and force
the stick into that velocity which
coins men.
Makes them patter and junk
their former lives
for something so close
to faith that we can taste
the salt lick smothering the engine.
Dissembling form.
Raking formlessness and
scripturing violence
into the grooves of his body.
...for historical accuracy's sake
...as a memory exercise
making ripe things rank by
pressing thumbs
very tightly into either side
until they meet in the middle.
Flesh of the fruit extinguished.
Spilling sugar left and right.
Radiating into every perimeter imaginable.
How do you take to water?
Equador holds out for us,
palms tightly pressed against the glass.
Cracks open a fig and mouths,
"See what we mean
when we say orchid this,
finch that?"
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