a baton in a race i used to know
the smooth dunes
performed monday evening, february 25, 2019
at bluestockings, new york city click
a baton in a race i used to know
king passed me the question, "what’s your passion today?"
i don’t know why me so candidly replied, “i don’t know why, nothing, today.”
the truth escaped me and the question swam away to evade the minds of others,
a baton handed off with a scoff in a race i used to know.
passion sought fervor, and honesty made her yawn.
other number one answered, “the cyclical nature of video games.
the rapture of playing, dying, reincarnating…
you must improve because the game always remains the same.”
other number two said, “blah blah music blah blah” ah-ha.
and i thought, “yes, sir. well, sure.
there are things i adore, others i abhor,
and many tunes i’d fall feeble and frail without,
but this thing called passion is another beast.”
an obsession made of desperation,
smothered in adoration, decadent with affection
that indoor fig tree you swivel an inch a week
swung soft and slow towards the sunlight.
the one that still grows
after all the others you over-watered and drowned.
the she you exert all your strength to escape
but tied you stay, perturbed and bound.
swim away, baby, a shark’s sniffed your cycle, and he’s coming.
pump your fists, darling, elbows at ninety.
mercury slips your balance but get up, and run,
the Terminator, he’s sprinting, he’s coming.
but these jaws that shred flesh and
the limbs that shed bullets are my lovers.
so yes no today, i feel no pain, no wildfire
trailblazing through all that is and will be no more.
i feel a distant warmth from a campfire of my youth,
cozy with mallows and my father.
i sit, still damaged from last spring
when fervor tore through me and left me splayed
with bruises under my eyes, holes in my fingers, and blood,
holy and divine, splattered in its wake.
today, i feed and i await
her fated return.
Under the fluorescent lights, she was met by her friend
with yellow hair so kinky, she salivated for a curly fry.
Jack In The Box.
She kissed her right cheek, stepped back to exchange words of embrace,
and let her eyes wander over her face.
Turns out, this Fry was salty.
The cold lights cast shadows on each crunchy makeup powder granule.
She saw every stray eyebrow hair unplucked in the too-bright lights and thought, how human.
Without intention, she accepted each ‘flaw’ instantly as a tasty treat, how interesting.
Platonic soul sister love, how powerful.
But in this friend she saw her foe.
Polluted thoughts clouded her mind and blocked her vision, and in she went!
Curly Fry’s lips kept moving but Squid Hair was blind! Deaf! Elsewhere, now,
fixated on her own pulsating chin,
on the cystic pimple she squeezed too soon.
If a pimple ready to pop is pus formed by oil called sebum, dead skin cells, and bacteria
ready to break through the surface,
this juicy papa was a closeted lesbian grandma. In too deep.
One who has peeked a gaze out the window, but never her whole head,
let alone her whole body. I mean, oh my!
Perhaps she has danced amongst the fairies during dawn and dusk,
but that was dancing, not leaving.
She had been shoved by lovers past, too soon!
Squeezed too hard and in she went!
Deeper, under the surface.
Fat with pus.
Crimson in flavor.
Uncomfortable to touch.
Squeeze soft and out it’ll pop, when grandma’s ready.
For now, change your bulbs to soft whites, papa.
The Smooth Dunes
Mascara perfectly cocoons each of her lashes. Long, dark, and sexy.
Penelope glimmers in the disco lights.
Flashes of silver bounce off her glazed over eyes, her crimson lip gloss that’s truly, as they say, poppin’,
and the silver earrings that frame her chiseled face. Tits perky, she’s the belle of the ball.
Coated with capitalist flesh (liquid foundation), her painted pimples remind him of the sand dunes of Morocco.
Patrick has always preferred the dunes to the Canyons, anyway. All is well.
Short, but still dark and handsome, he swings her ‘round left and she spins on her pointed heel
with her head whipped back in a giddy cackle. Penelope is enamored and they both know, he’s a lucky man.
He goes in for the kiss and Penelope loses herself, an animal unleashed.
Perfect Penelope fell off two martini’s and five twirls ago.
She tangles her fingers in his hair and lets him swallow her whole.
She peels her lips off his five songs later in a frenzy, but it’s too late.
How could she !
How could she kiss !
How could she kiss someone !
How could she kiss someone with stubble!
The smooth dunes were gone, wiped away in streaks.
Patrick had been hiking down the Grand Canyon, after all.
The disco flashed red. Red! RED! and she fled.