as one ******* said to me
upon a third consent,
daughter's photograph in hand,
a tattoo i kissed on the
same shoulder-blade where my
scar is -
tearful during ******* -
stoppage -
'but you haven't changed!'
i thought i had -
'but you haven't changed!
you're still the same!'
we just lay there - the money
didn't matter, but the hour
did, it was too short -
'i've just drunk too much,
i'm too emotional!'
'don't worry, remember every time
i come here the first thing i ask
for is a glass of water? i should be
intimidated by all you girls
sitting here eyeing me for a ****,
i only ask for water'.
the cemented Sahara,
where no wind can dust up
a sand-storm - the cement
a rigidity - mind you
the camel asked for an apron
and sunglasses -
a thousandth Sahara to mind Gobi
was solidified for the roads
of urban perks and teases of
gasoline stink mingling with
baked bagels and off-the-bone-cleaved-easy
salty pork...
                     endear me to forget virginity
to whatever theological celebration
of a crux of what was once written -
unless you will endear me to remember
virginity in whatever theological
celebration there is to a loss, a mourning
rather than a celebration.
i too was tearful once -
she said: 'but you promised me the stars!'
and i did - constellations dislodged
of the freely gravitating to linear anomalies
in science - i did - i did - i did.