back to poetry…

choice of fantasy on a warm afternoon

i got a barefoot afternoon.
nothing specific to do,
nowhere specific to go.
the kind of sunshine afternoon
where the most attractive option
for conversation
is that cute little girl in collections,
or maybe that blond girl pushing
air time for commercial radio
who pants when she breathes deep.

either one makes for that
(what is it the romantics called it?)
elan, or soap-sud morning,
where hot water follows contours
of skin down towards the drain.
it takes a special kind of girl for those moments,
maybe like the girl from Chinaski’s
Eulogy To A Hell Of A Dame

can’t win ’em all. whether we’re swapping
bloody words she can stick on my chest with
her tongue or cascading into
meals for sweet-talk on the way to the
bedroom to move in conjunction
with the spinning world,
all the while trying to
find some deeper connection
in slick/sticky liquid movement,
we still need to know it won’t dissolve
to lip/stick words on a mirror, dear john,
that kind of thing.

piss poor timing, as always,
where were you when i needed rescue
from scissors and sharp objects?
where was i when i should have been
behind your shoulder, pushing you
back into that place you always wanted to go.
piss poor timing, as always.

maybe another time i’ll call &
you’ll answer; open door stare at what
little i can bring you to keep
you interested and turned-on a
little longer. vain hope for better days,
and better-day results
when the last thing i see before closing
down my eyes
is you. until then, there are sunny
afternoons that talk straight;
swirling winds that bend the sunlight
into your eyes. no wonder all we can
see is what we want to see.
what else is there?

a boy can dream, can’t he?

Dedicated to the sympathizers of warm afternoon air-conditioned apartments where we can turn towards each other and laugh at all the fucked up shit that almost ended a really good story. Almost ended; because this can’t end. It doesn’t work like that. Inspired by the afternoon of May 12th, 2000. (Don’t bother investigating or googling that. I am, as far as i know, the only one who knows what happened that day, and that is a story I doubt I’ll ever retell.)

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