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Kenneth P. Gurney |
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Thunder Sandwich #26 - Summer/Fall 2005 |
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Abasement Gerald slouched into the clemency of a few stiff drinks. "There is no need to raise your voice," he announced to the silent bartender. Gerald studied the virtuous lines of the table dancer and found two wings dusting the ceiling. But the graspability of the dancer's skin was out of reach, somewhere beyond a frozen stare-case and virulent walls. Gerald tried a few old lines anyway, but dug his rut a little deeper not differentiating his mooted attitude from her indifference. Remembering his father's opinion about Vietnam, he declared victory and went home for sleep. State of Mind Spilled coffee and cat piss fumes rise from the sofa. An anonymous cock leaves a stain on the inside of April's cheek. The mop died years ago and the floorboards suffer through neglect. His hands stroke her breasts, squeeze, tweak the nipples until she moans. Rain attends the broken glass, the ghost of a window. He tells her to talk dirty to him. She says nothing, doesn't feel dirty. Quarrel I question my back's ability to lift the paper weighted down with poetry. The animosity my lover holds against her cheek might as well be rose thorns. In the bed of prickly pear we lay down to nap after ordinary words and lip-served deeds. I direct my diminishing satisfaction toward the purple tops of thistles. Detached, I listen to the bees and the birds display their songs. My lover pulls wings from her hand bag, flies to another flower. Oh, beautiful retribution fell Cupid's release from its flight. [Index] |