Book of Desire

Serious young men in their faux casual suits, fresh
from work, they shoulder, they grind
forward, they bruise and they push—
in the end of the workday, bells ringing,
in the end of the day, I sing
halleluiah the men and their stubble
fresh emerging from their morning’s scraped and scented cheeks,
halleluiah the men and their ties
loosened, their shirts’ collars unbuttoning, one, then two,

arms raised for the taxi, arms raised for the bus strap,
arms in movement in speed certain in triumph
the day has ended and the men are on the move,
and I sing in praise of the belt,
the ring of the metal tongue slapping against the buckle, the release
and the whipping
through the loops, I praise the suit jacket, its label of origin, its secret
silk lining, luxury,
the gathered sweat in the pits, luxury,

so serious, their faces, composed like repose,
so serious their hands and their wrists,
the watch that winds with their bodies’ momentum,
the brown hair the black hair the gold
on knuckles, civilized, moisturized,

the men on the move on the make
in the streets to the doors of their women, their men,
their pocketed intentions
manifesting once more,
I sing in the end of the day,
their cuffs without fray
the men and their briefcases swinging.


Book of Excess

Most of what I loved best I took in pill form,
chased with a slug of self-
indulgence, all while sitting
in an Eames chair which is
the real thing,
tattooed
on a pretty young hipster’s forearm,
along with a smiling cupcake, a candy
dandy with a cane,
a pin-wheeled
sucker I’d volunteer
to lick from the outer spiral in—
if only.
In my tattooed state
I flex with her flex, I supple
when she lounges
on the bed
before her scruffy counterpart,
whose jeans she can wear
because she is free of hips or baby weight
and he subsists on air
and gold plated stereo cables.
Some days I am a Betty Page
and I lean back
across her bicep,
breasts like bullets and the whip
in my hand
other days I am a Betty Grable,
coy over the shoulder and the legs
(O those legs)
but always a Betty
stereo-hyped to an inch of my
life in the public eye in the smoky pool hall in the bedroom
where she and I unbutton her buttons
and prepare for my big reveal.


Copyright the author(s) ©2007–2012