Those bluejean shorts, cut to the crotch, you wore that summer: I've sent the memory of them to my Hall of Recall Fame. There's going to be an induction ceremony, where I will speak about your brown legs, the red thread in the bluejean shorts, the shadow in your belly's button, what lay north of that, what lay south, what happened to those back pockets when your buttocks filled them, how we lay in all directions as the swamp-cooler rumbled and as little black waves of spinning vinyl delivered tunes we thought might cool our heat eventually.
It'll be a short speech at the induction ceremony. But O my darling, the memory of you, of us, of heat, of those bluejean shorts you cut to the crotch, how "crotch" was never a crude word between us, how I--this is not too strong--worshiped your brown legs and your crotch when you took off the shorts and the bright, white panties. O my darling, O.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
195. R&B (Sex Is Clumsy)
Sex is clumsy. Everybody knows that,
especially the ones who portray it
otherwise: Hollywood, Harlequin,
Playboy . . . It's an awkward comedy,
part of its charm. We can overcome
the clumsiness--part of its grace.
Hey, look, it's a list of kisses, strokes,
talk, tastings, fittings of bodies, of
minds, of pleasures. Such elements
assemble. They're the improv troupe
of sex. And it's all right, it's good,
even very good. Great?
Well, sex is probably better
when it's good, not great.
Anyway, for now, let's talk
of something else (or not talk)
and sip red wine, maybe smoke
some weed, and listen to R&B.
Copyright 2012
especially the ones who portray it
otherwise: Hollywood, Harlequin,
Playboy . . . It's an awkward comedy,
part of its charm. We can overcome
the clumsiness--part of its grace.
Hey, look, it's a list of kisses, strokes,
talk, tastings, fittings of bodies, of
minds, of pleasures. Such elements
assemble. They're the improv troupe
of sex. And it's all right, it's good,
even very good. Great?
Well, sex is probably better
when it's good, not great.
Anyway, for now, let's talk
of something else (or not talk)
and sip red wine, maybe smoke
some weed, and listen to R&B.
Copyright 2012
Monday, March 5, 2012
194. Old Kisser of Women's Toes
There is an old, lascivious man in our village who sits on sidewalks and beside park-paths in the sunshine. Some of the young (and not so young) women know all about him, and they come up to him and stand. He rouses himself from lethargy, gets on his knees, and kisses their toes protruding from sandals. Some women take their shoes off for this service.
Often the women visit him in pairs or trios, and after he kisses their toes, they giggle and scamper away. If they try to give him money, he refuses. More than once he has said, "I'm neither a prostitute nor a destitute man. This is a hobby, and my gift to you. And to me." He's oddly formal, this old man. But this doesn't keep him from savoring details, such as the color of paint on toes, a tender hammer-toe, a wee tattoo, the angle of the big toe, and so on.
At twilight the man often lies on a bench and sleeps deeply like a beast. I know because I am he. No doubt this hobby of mine disgusts you. Technically, it's not a fetish, as I don't get aroused. Difficult as it may be to believe this, I see this activity as a community service and a whimsy of my twilit years.
Last night as I was still dozing, one of the women left a red rose on my chest as I slept.
Later her husband--who had been spying on her--came and threatened to beat me up. He was at least 30 years my junior and in excellent shape.
I told him to go home and kiss his wife's body, starting with her brown toes, which, I said, had that lovely ruby paint on them today. Hers are sweet toes, yes, coated with the finest summer dust, like pollen. By the way, for those of you obsessed with hygiene, I do rinse my mouth between toe-kissings. I hope this fact eases your concern.
Anyway, the husband's concern was not eased. That is, he knocked me down. A few decades ago, I might have written, "He hit me in the kisser." He left. I lay and looked at the starts for a while, smelled the dew, listened to the complaints of a frog. I shivered, got up, found the red rose, and went home.
In the bath-water, I thought, not so much of the toes and kissing them, or even of the feet, but of the smiles of the women and their laughter. Yes, I'm a lascivious old man, living in a village, looked at warily by police, boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, and partners. I am a toe-kisser with a bruised face.
Often the women visit him in pairs or trios, and after he kisses their toes, they giggle and scamper away. If they try to give him money, he refuses. More than once he has said, "I'm neither a prostitute nor a destitute man. This is a hobby, and my gift to you. And to me." He's oddly formal, this old man. But this doesn't keep him from savoring details, such as the color of paint on toes, a tender hammer-toe, a wee tattoo, the angle of the big toe, and so on.
At twilight the man often lies on a bench and sleeps deeply like a beast. I know because I am he. No doubt this hobby of mine disgusts you. Technically, it's not a fetish, as I don't get aroused. Difficult as it may be to believe this, I see this activity as a community service and a whimsy of my twilit years.
Last night as I was still dozing, one of the women left a red rose on my chest as I slept.
Later her husband--who had been spying on her--came and threatened to beat me up. He was at least 30 years my junior and in excellent shape.
I told him to go home and kiss his wife's body, starting with her brown toes, which, I said, had that lovely ruby paint on them today. Hers are sweet toes, yes, coated with the finest summer dust, like pollen. By the way, for those of you obsessed with hygiene, I do rinse my mouth between toe-kissings. I hope this fact eases your concern.
Anyway, the husband's concern was not eased. That is, he knocked me down. A few decades ago, I might have written, "He hit me in the kisser." He left. I lay and looked at the starts for a while, smelled the dew, listened to the complaints of a frog. I shivered, got up, found the red rose, and went home.
In the bath-water, I thought, not so much of the toes and kissing them, or even of the feet, but of the smiles of the women and their laughter. Yes, I'm a lascivious old man, living in a village, looked at warily by police, boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, and partners. I am a toe-kisser with a bruised face.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
192. Incredible Deals for a Limited Time Only
The advertisers proclaim that their offers are for a limited time only.
I want offers to last forever.
I want a red sofa to be sale even after the sun is spent and has become a red dwarf.
I want that weary red dwarf to have the chance to get a free large cola to sip as it eats a specially priced astral sandwich.
No one, brother and sisters, should feel compelled to hurry down to take advantage of deals that are incredible.
If a deal is not to be believed, then I say let it be a falsehood for all time.
I want offers to last forever.
I want a red sofa to be sale even after the sun is spent and has become a red dwarf.
I want that weary red dwarf to have the chance to get a free large cola to sip as it eats a specially priced astral sandwich.
No one, brother and sisters, should feel compelled to hurry down to take advantage of deals that are incredible.
If a deal is not to be believed, then I say let it be a falsehood for all time.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
191. Used Experiences
He needed cash, and he'd collected a lot of experiences in his life, so he took some of them to a Used Experience Store and tried to sell them.
The proprietor went through the experiences with the chill haste of the unsentimental expert. Then she said, "I'm afraid these aren't worth much. They're very common."
He didn't believe she was afraid.
He was tempted to protest but he knew doing so would only enhance humiliation.
She said, "I can't give you any cash, but I could give you a bit of credit to use as trade for other experiences in our store."
He said No Thanks and packed up his experiences in the brown cardboard box (with faded red lettering) of his memory and went home and felt bad about his life, parts of which had seemed vivid and rare to him before today.
His place felt cold and drab. He experienced that. He had no idea what experience he should have next. He didn't really give a shit one way or the other now.
The proprietor went through the experiences with the chill haste of the unsentimental expert. Then she said, "I'm afraid these aren't worth much. They're very common."
He didn't believe she was afraid.
He was tempted to protest but he knew doing so would only enhance humiliation.
She said, "I can't give you any cash, but I could give you a bit of credit to use as trade for other experiences in our store."
He said No Thanks and packed up his experiences in the brown cardboard box (with faded red lettering) of his memory and went home and felt bad about his life, parts of which had seemed vivid and rare to him before today.
His place felt cold and drab. He experienced that. He had no idea what experience he should have next. He didn't really give a shit one way or the other now.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
190. In the Dream About Partying With Women
In the dream about partying with women, Hiram is high on hashish. He dances on a terrace with different women, various women, who are deftly desirous unlike men.
Just off the terrace are apartments with red rugs and many bedrooms. In the dream, the hash has occasionally but subtly disoriented Hiram. He experiences slight hallucinations that alter flow of time. It is of no concern to him. Now different women take him to different rooms, where nudity and sex realize ambitions that involve Hiram, who is amenable.
In the dream's last scene, Hiram dreams he is sleeping. A woman he vaguely knows wakes him by lying atop him, naked, in the 69 position. He responds. He laps the lovely wetness of her secret place.
Just off the terrace are apartments with red rugs and many bedrooms. In the dream, the hash has occasionally but subtly disoriented Hiram. He experiences slight hallucinations that alter flow of time. It is of no concern to him. Now different women take him to different rooms, where nudity and sex realize ambitions that involve Hiram, who is amenable.
In the dream's last scene, Hiram dreams he is sleeping. A woman he vaguely knows wakes him by lying atop him, naked, in the 69 position. He responds. He laps the lovely wetness of her secret place.
189. Politics
Visible only for a while longer: a white, blue, red political candidate's sign, the candidate's name now inscrutable, lodged under a green, brown, yellow mass of blackberry vines, black brush, and ferns.
188. Meatloaf Writers Conference
At the Meatloaf Writers Conference, famous authors call each other by nicknames and speak in complacent ironies.
A homeless man sneaks into the conference to get some food. He has blood stains on his soggy garments.
Security escorts him out. He says, "There must be some mistake. I write! And where's the meat loaf?"
A famous editor floats by in khakis and top-siders. He knows exactly how to behave. He knows exactly what to say. He says nothing about the small disturbance--Security with homeless man. How very strange!
The famous editor encounters some very old dear friends indeed. Longtime shadows groan because they know he is about to tell a story. A practiced story--well balanced, appropriate, and well capitalized. Everything is as it has always been.
A homeless man sneaks into the conference to get some food. He has blood stains on his soggy garments.
Security escorts him out. He says, "There must be some mistake. I write! And where's the meat loaf?"
A famous editor floats by in khakis and top-siders. He knows exactly how to behave. He knows exactly what to say. He says nothing about the small disturbance--Security with homeless man. How very strange!
The famous editor encounters some very old dear friends indeed. Longtime shadows groan because they know he is about to tell a story. A practiced story--well balanced, appropriate, and well capitalized. Everything is as it has always been.
Friday, February 10, 2012
187. "Youth and Beauty," by Al Akhtal
"Youth and Beauty," by Al Akhtal, Arab poet, circa 650 A.D., from Mesopotamia/Syrian desert:
"Youth and Beauty"
"Youth and Beauty"
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