I took the text out of the box, Marc said, the box out
of the sun
splashing over leaves this morning amid the screams of
birds (a
robin just hopped into eyesight here), and the sun I
took out of
the parking lot over which I unofficially preside. The
parking
lot over which I unofficially preside is just now this
morning
before the white car cleaved it frothing; it
anticipates another
scorcher of a day, though I'll keep my shirt on, even
through
shopping with her yesterday (in Lane Bryant the music
is house
house house, the fat girls shuffle through racks of
bled denim
and potential transformations, no-one knows how
beautiful they
are except me, how like gracious moons escaped from
the slavery
of satellitism they flow through daydreaming with her
of her,
eyes widened planetary behind nerd specs and the
troubled lips)
means today will bite Henry the GirlCat on waking, who
winds
around my bare and white legs like a friendly smoke as
I pry
coffee from the filter tree (must I save these sullen
children
from smoke inhalation and heart disease? Must I take
my Saint
John's Wort with two droppers of Gingko Biloba in the
cup?). One
remembers Old Navy as a fourth of July sale spritzing
summer red
white and blur.
Yeah, I took the text out of the box. It wasn't
battery-
powered, but had its own assembly just beneath the
slick business
of the screen (I'd learned long ago that codes wrote
this out,
not I; the parking lot with its unofficial baroque of
cars asleep
in the resonant sun sighed with its head on its sunny
blacktop
paws). I held the text in my hands for minutes undone,
painting
it with my eyes with sounds I stole from daily bread.
It was a
rise in crime I saw there assailing the _root. Some of
us had the
luxury of the power-walk built-in; they marched along
the
blacktop swinging their arms, sun visor in passionate
place just
above a tan that contrasted byzantine with a blue and
mauve tie-
dye shirt that asked: what do you believe in, if
anything, here
in this unofficial parking lot gaze? The difference
between this
and the other place (and the place other than that,
and the place
other than that, and…) is that I have this barely
closed room
over all, in which I can sit sipping today's
temperature without
agitation, and those that see me floating like this
across from
the trees aligned so raw like scandalous nature and
her dirty
pussy ticking sex out inch by inch can take me for
just another
planet, meanwhile I'm dreaming casual crimping of her
ass thrust
into my groin, burning pelvis drips like newly
grounded color
tongues swallowing my excitement like death herself
would trap me
if she were anything but feeble there, baffled at how
just this
chain of her and I linked by pushing in and pulling
out (not to
mention with fingers buried, and one just pressing the
button
which just earlier had been depressed in pores) is
itself a
living, and a good one at that!

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