It might be somewhat out of context in the absence of the rest of the world, but I find the words pretty savory:
___________________________________________________
The night
Scott and I initially met in Chicago, blind but vocally and wordily
knowledgeable, was magical dust thrown into the fan, scattered. I had an inner-narrative
flash of the night scarred on my brain the moment it began, continued, ended,
presently tense, tensely present, our voices melted into one force:
“Everything is electric, on. His face is a
Gerber daisy with a scare of black gravity hair that rocks with molten power
above the apartment’s slicked-back hardwood floors,” I said.
“An electrified knock, and I turn
the light on. She is behind my cracked door, an exotic flower in red, a
pleasure-meeting, melting first-time. I might have already been waiting for her
on a travel-crowded street, passing her El platform in a whirly whizz of
colors, her face shooting refracted rainbows through each flourescent-lit
window,” he admitted.
“We have chamomile tea in a dungeony
café, laugh-lifting lead-laid cups that camouflage our faces each time they
rise, tone biceps with ludicrous weight. I keep disappearing, becoming a white
round with tight-pressed moony fingernails,” I remarked.
“I simply wait, wait for her ghostly
eyes to glitter above the lipstick rim. There is a good-luck ladybug on the
sill with a strange leg growth. She saw another one today that bustled into her
car only to fly back out the window into the new crinkly-green autumn,” he
pressed.
“Two ladybugs dance, almost perfect
save a broken brown wing. I watch his lanky fingertip tracing up-down, letting
her leggy red alight. The insect rattles down the window and re-begins her
persistent ascent -- Our Good Luck,” I sighed.
He noted, “We are walking hungry to a party.
I want to touch her tornado static. Words that have been lingering on a
black-cursored page are among us, whistle through winded ears, cyclone in
hearts stimulated by shocking same-thought paddles.”
“We are leant up against a
Kahluha-cream stove, turned-on. Emphatic fingers fondle burners, trace map
paths through white and black letter jungles of mediocre magnetic poetry. His jeans
are stuck like electric-dryer-sock thigh muscles clenching my hip. We are one
energized unit with multiplied parts,” I exploded.
“I
am parking my car. She is using my bathroom. She will touch my things, my
toilet paper, my faucet,” he insisted.
I shouted, “I may not be alone anymore,
selfish or crazed or desperate. I might not rush each moment without tickling,
tripping, adoring.”
“She
is next to a photograph. I like the look of her life next to mine, how her hair
curls around one ear, streaky with amazing sunlit citrus. She doesn’t know I
notice her through closed doors, but I can see her x-ray straight through, me
looking at her looking at me, keeping the calculated completeness,” he
contemplated.
“I might be incited, playing kitchen
equipment games, glasses of calcium-enriched orange juice. His finger creeps
and seeps supernatural, tangles my bracelet, dangles my kneecap. Hands clasped
pray for a safe journey into the dark bed that overlooks an alley decorated by
a flat-tired, hatch-back Honda Civic,” I breathed.
“We are in the wilderness dark. I may flick on the light. Instead I grab her,
pull her turtleneck and touch her lips, suck upper and lower free while I tear
her limb from limb, contorting her so we might climb inside melted bones,” he
pressed.
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