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idyll of the banquet for estranged lovers
She believes I came to her for sex,
though life has neutered me enough
to be content having it on the brain,
across a multitude of southern states
to hunger at the bounty of her fallen scarf
lying in aesthetic disarray at her bare feet --
a parti-colored cotton relic svelte fingers knotted
around the Leonardoesque contour of her throat,
a fragile being beyond the reach of lusting man?
"Shit howdy," I blurted, lying & denying
the way people in love do in the movies,
though our screen was bare as grandma's cupboard.
Her Texas home was a triumph of suburban-uncool.
She cooked good Tex Mex food & spoke of world news
filtering unobstrusively from her T.V. altar
the cozy living room was illumined by,
reserving the brunt of her comments for a husband
missing in domestic action, a man she hated --
as if he were an impostor, not really her husband.
If love was food we would have starved
like Kafka's hunger artists, glutted by memories
of unreachable sex in the shadow of false gods,
inhuman now as ourselves grasping for loincloths
secreting that dry ambrosia to poison clay pedestals.
of midnight in the neon oasis while staring at a red planet
pagan martians wank at me
digital streaming birth rambles
while tax-dodging prevaricators
sell real time credit scams
my mind incorporates freely
a vegas mine of silver moonshine
for whatever it's worth to see
naked walking to the strip together
watching gray street pigeons flutter
from atop the stratosphere tower
to fly framed against a purple sky
jimi's guitar sounds emblazon yet
while resort mars looms closer
this midnight in the neon oasis
orange shrimp cocktails blog
messages of lips kissing red hot
strumming jimi's invisible guitar
(as wingless angels fly to
some unseen heaven's time
orbiting an unknown rhyme)
I shut off the telescope --
it's better sometimes
to sleep while watching
what's too close for comfort
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