Sunday, July 22, 2012

For women with borderline
personality disorders and
Who enjoy tormenting
their men inside and outside
the bedroom mostly
Where intimacy, another
affinity, slips away quietly 
through cracks in the walls
And floorboards, hangs
in the cobwebs in the corners
until swept into the pan and tossed…
For sweet summer oranges
dripping their sticky juices
into greedy hungry fingers
Whose wetness, if not licked
right way, turns into a mucky 
adhesive that makes 
The skin stick together,
two, maybe three, fingers at a time 
until they are washed clean…
For the wet lover who pulls 
away the belt and says, “I want 
to feel you, taste you, I want to eat
you alive, I want all of you 
inside of me where no one or nothing
will ever tear us apart.”
For the crimson and scandalous
yellow roses pulsing in
fragrances that dance 
Like short summer skirts through the nose
open to the hot wind, and the breeze
the cool ocean breeze…
For oak trees, kestrels
vulvas and breasts
and the creek
Where water this late 
in summer doesn’t usually 
run but today it does…
For cold dark beer
and warm dark women
that go down easy
as the wacky Sac girl who, between breaths
says, “I love the way your cock feels 
getting hard in my mouth”
and turns her
garden into a thorn
patch asking for kudos…
For the howling grief
of a mother who 
loses her baby
And would tear
her heart out of her chest
if she could…
For the skittish survivor
who remembers nothing
of her childhood
Whose love is marred
by the shadows of
men whose faces she does not know
Or wish to remember
whose father is a fugitive hiding
in some dog patch in Mexico
And makes his living
smuggling porn videos
into the poorer neighborhoods of Africa.

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