I was feeling really ****** and low,
coming to from an affair that bored me.
Frankly, I was rut down
in a mind that all ladies had bored me,
and I happened into this woman with a large brain
covered in a drunken and sly confidence
mixed
beer, shots, smokes, violins and
billiard *****.
We flirted a while in such an unusual mansion
owned by a millionaire racist
who we all later came to adore
and drank his Polish ***** in welcomed shots
by the dozens
as I (feeling ****** and low)
was coming out of my rut that women are a bore,
I watched her shoot pool trying to relax my wanton urges
and the thing that really helped
was this very long silence between flirts
while we traded the stick
and I could plan my next geometric move
as haphazard as the geometry of my brains.
We were clever,
so clever, and cool, that
we didn't know we didn't know
and hardly knew that we didn't know
that in a few short hours we'd be hopelessly
desperately undying linked
in a nicely confusing and endlessly evolving
affair of our own that would
go on for years--
offending her younger brother at parties
running drunken through the streets of Denver
rocking to sleep in a boat in San Diego
staring at geysers in Iceland
and mumbling Viking songs in Stockholm--
so much so that everyone
turned lovers around us
and it goes on and on
and the years passed and
it all seemed like a match strike
so quick and delicate
but so emblazoned and fierce
that the wood might snap or the sulfur degrade
or the flame stabilize and flicker
but the lighting fluid seems endless too
and she's still evolving to burn
even hotter
and I stopped believing that women are boring
or at least there's hope for the rest of them.