Sunday, September 2, 2012

For those seeking my body as Passage:

I am sorry.
I am not a proper vessel,
I sometimes allow the swells to toss me
to and fro
just to let my barnacles breathe
a little bit

I’m sorry
but I do not turn
when you twist your engines into me
I am sorry
that the smoke you planted,
hot & coalful in my belly
is now a rising stink
emptied of results intended.

I am sorry
but your cargo doesn’t fit
& we are taking a detour,
so I can deepen my bonds with the whales
& sirens.

I am sorry
but I will not tell them to soften their voices.
That uncontrol you think you are feeling,
that magic they sang into your skin,
only unhinges the clasp
on your own
unpracticed accountability.

Some might say its your own fault
that your ears were just
for their moonsong
but not me.
I know how truly innocent you are;
how the shift from silence to siren can feel so sudden & small.

I feel your fear.

& I am sorry
that the whales will devour you
& your raw untightened eardrums.

I am sorry I put the force
of you in danger
but this is what you face
when you board me
with your brawn
all hung out and blazing.

My Butch

My butch is budding.
At night my butch crawls out,
& curls up in my bra to suck out the long day’s yellowing sweat.

My butch loves meat
& would nail your body
hot and skinfull to the nearest wall
if you bought her a cheeseburger.

My butch guffaws proudly at farts.

My butch can be both tender and creatively rough.
my butch will ignite the sweat between your breasts
her eyes will dance at the changes in your breath.
My butch has a firm grasp on your shoulder.
She’s not afraid to clutch ankles
or use your hipbones like a turning fork.

My butch always keeps lubricant handy
in case the gears get thirsty.

My butch is budding
beautiful and large and proud down to every follicle
my butch smiles knowingly
when the pedestrians notice
her fuzzy undercarriage.

My butch is irritated by underwear that is anything less than comfortable

My butch tells me that my cock
looks better
with a little bit of belly hanging over.

My butch is all push back & crafty syllogisms
my butch makes love like retaliation.

My butch is still recovering from my father’s displeasure.
My butch tells me not to downshift
that the pain my ass will ache when morning comes
is worth the climb.
And that my legs
deserve to be bigger.

My butch tells me
that being a happy mussel
is more important than suffering pearls.
And then she laughs like emptied abalone clacking.

My butch tells me
that sweat is the evidence of love and dignity.
My butch loves the dirt.
My butch thinks that poppies
about to burst
and look just like nipples,
throbbing fuzzily in the breeze.
My butch is budding.