Hot Metal Cools Slowly into Law
Neither gin
nor its companion elixirs—tonic, rickey, juice, fizz,
soothes like warm air parting the hair,
primping the fades of soldiers stationed
stateside or overseas.
Content & wary of rank & reveille
mess halls, protocol & lust,
alongside efforts of spit-shine & conformity,
our natural needs are natural,
sir yes sir yes sir yes reports-as-ordered sir.
For matters of trick, shade & shadow—
wink & nod, spread the hiss
down-low
palm-scratch
shoosh
find-a-match
shoosh
tilt the blue beret that-a-way.
Sing-sing-sing of erasure's thirst—
Keg of August wind, heat in his hips, for once,
a dog-days storm. Muddy water in my shoes, but see,
it's baptismal to requite someone's swinging-sweep,
another fella's good "get-down."
Sing-sing-sing of a time in Roswell, TDY—
He was a major who read Capote & called him Streckfus.
Next to my arm lay his on which prodigious Kansas grew.
Where there is no shame scandal tames its wince.
At parade rest, left foot to the left of the right foot,
I fed my ego a trip to our haunt, the far-end silverleaf oak,
its bark beckoning for both of our backs,
lunar taboo—officer & enlisted waltzing in the lion's den:
If morning's echo says we've sinned,
just touch my cheek before you leave me.
We also candle & pant in his tent—
And it won't matter anyhow—
The translatable hush of Clinton's decree:
"Effective immediately,
brave men & women, defenders in peace & war,
fully serve this country stanchioning off your nature
& essence, these fundamental urges & gasps.
Choose your trot, mild, spicy, or hot.
Fuck whomever you choose—
Don't Ask Don't Tell. "
Note from Norphenia: Everything's Out in the Open
Early wiggle of light
more silver than clabbered dreams.
New suits, cowboy boots and Polaroid
sent you packing your hair with Vaseline.
Notches up on mother wit and born fourth.
Between us the pull of secrecy:
hands with which I played adult;
the other-day man with thick thumbs—
those of your father.
I watched you teach and paddle trees
polished your crown of tantrums with spoil:
another tape recorder, another mitt
another book—motherhood's tacit scratch.
Reasons to toot November.
