His skin was hard coral. Shacks leaned
against each other for company.
Wood-smoke, hayseed, robin’s tweet,
green and black pills.
These things kissed me soft like a rock.
Frank Bellamia, Chicago. The shacks
avoided themselves when he was around.
Veins stretched and sang.
A twung was heard, that discordant devil
because we zippered our dresses up front-first.
The day wished I would end.
A slimy creature of sex and cruelty knocked
on our door. We looked far away for a place
to sit and we found a chair in a flowerbed which
we destroyed with a long, wooden beam.
LM, come on.
You will discover a song under the blankets.
Fool around with a slack-jawed pen and
people remember the last thing you forgot.
Tango siete siestas –
these sleeps sing under
the blankets even as wood-smoke and these
pills surround my urges like boys around
girls at a spin-the-bottle party.

03/20/2007

Posted on 03/20/2007
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