| In there |
[10 Feb 2008|12:55pm] |
For Sandra
Yes,
I want to talk at length about my semen.
Or my ejaculate.
Or my wad as you so lovingly put it.
All right then.
I'd like to mention my load.
Pearlescent. Stringy
and radiant when the light hits it
like the moon in its full glory. Rigid,
I create jewelry each day.
The life inside it like a colony.
Vigorous bits of slick
to-the-touch-stuff that quickly turns sticky.
Poppy milk without the poppy.
The gobs of vanilla pudding.
Elastic strands like
silken rubber in your hand.
It's important you feel it freshly warm,
understand the texture isn't watery at all, but viscous.
That I don't unravel or dribble
between my legs. Rather,
I absolutely geyser, yes I gush
from some not so deep center--
like a Texan oil well with its deposit just below the surface,
or better, like a coked-up bartender
madly mixing White Russians in a cocktail shaker
who suddenly looses its top.
Still with me?
Oh I know, sweetie,
I'm waxing on, but ride it out
if you will.
I find the substance engaging.
In fact,
I'd like to stroke my fingers
again and again across my quill
and write a poem across the wall.
"A Poem of Manhood"
Would you find that intriguing?
Words inked in semen. But no,
not semen alone, I told you.
If semen is thicker than water, then
cum is thicker than sister-
hood. And the way
it is alive! Sparkles.
Wriggling microscopically
like electrolyte.
From the first
translucent drop of white
to the pearly spray that comes later.
Oh, did I mention taste? Well
you’d say salt.
But think milder.
Savory.
But lighter.
An intoxicating musk
from a bustling, Arabic bazaar.
Viking pale, virile,
and oh so distinctly
male.
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| Jim |
[10 Feb 2008|04:30pm] |
He hit the time clock looking half dead-
disheveled hair, stained white tee,
worn hound's tooth pants.
"You're late again"
I said, while thinking: goddamn,
If I could only find another cook
worth half your salt?
Just one of many times I could've fired him.
I am no pushover or sentimentalist,
so there are a few things you need to understand.
Old Jim was an insufferable drunk,
relied exclusively on curse words to talk,
gambled, lied and rumor had it,
once killed a man in the pen,
yet despite his faults
he was a maestro when in the weeds.
When the wheel was blooming tickets
and the servers were screaming like banshees,
he never lost his cool.
It's not the point that I once caught him
washing his pants in the dish machine,
knew of his stash of Pabst in the produce cooler,
turned a blind eye to his nightly dinner
of broiler station scraps and that
those, in actuality, were whole fillets
and not even his habit
of referring to his knife as his "tool".
The point's that in all other respects
he was born for the kitchen's hellish ways,
the long, cruel hours on your feet,
scorching heat of salamandered plates,
desperate pleas for traction
thrown salt asks of spilt grease,
inevitable cuts, burns and falls,
the sheer will it takes to keep your hand
over a broiler grill when flipping steaks.
"The breaks" had never broken him,
so I let him saunter in like he owned the place
but watched him like a dog
that could turn on you at any time.
What it amounted to was that Jim
was an indispensable, son-of-a-bitch
who if I gave enough rope,
always towed the line
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