Published: September 1, 2003
Can I find the trick in the bag?
The last drop in the can?
Will I kick the bucket or fall flat on my back in a feeble attempt?
Will I find that glimmer of sex in your eye and polish it, make it shine?
Like antelope’s horns,
proud atop their graceful head.
Like a trophy on your mantle.
We will watch and see.
Looking for the truths I want to find,
gleaming over what I don’t want,
into the bag past pebbles and stones
Past shame and deceit into pride and
to rise like a climaxing storm or descending jingoism.
Deep into the abyss of light colored eyes
Or stench of shit or swirl of spit
burrowing into my breast breaking through bone
As the blood drips down my hip along my thigh
a puddle collecting in my sandal.
Plethora of ants drowning in a crimson tide by my feet
as if it were sugarwater from a child’s discarded treat.
Not like ice-
Free from the cold
still warm and pulsating
more alive as it dies.
Sloshing under little ant’s feet,
sloshing under mine as the bucket comes closer.
My blood photosynthesizes into something else.
And I clench my jaw, my eyes, my sex
And I clench my hands to my breast feeling the ripples of life and love
contract and relax
sensation spreading down into me, rippling out of me.
An adventure that cools like the eucalyptus air
I breathe into my heated body
slithering into a new sexual mind,
without the sex,
more like sense
like swirling smoke flooding sense
so that I taste my smell and hear my vision.
My proclivity turns into passion,
to surrender to the smile of an innocent who does not
recognize my fire or the scraps of life discarded.