if it exceeded the art of the metronome wizard,
in the bedroom, ducking or not ducking,
I cannot taste the sweat.
Eternity has sweat,
it is not a vacuum packaged stirring of
grafted-on equilibrium, release.
I find no release in this,
but I could so marry the energy
If that was my art.
Heavy making food,
the kind you try to laugh off but somehow can't,
the type that disrupts the equilibrium so much
that you seek out more,
now you have heavy-accepting pants
The kind that accept the ungainly beast
you have become,
that don't mind hearing you snore.
They expand and expand,
and still the urge to give them more,
until at first you hear a tear and then a snap––
Now you are ready for….
Depends, non explosive-–
making you lift higher, do the tippy-toe jiggle,
give those hidden creases an extra flap.
You lose balance, find your butthead
meeting your chin on the way to bootstrapped toilette––
Out for some time,
now you are ready for....
Bone-setting implants, they harness you out a sawed-off log,
longitudinally erect, firm and unforgiving,
how you long for ....
Her all-knowing glance,
second childhood more than a whim,
a chance to discover lessons of the past,
compare them with a lifetime of fruitlessly
raising one creaking hand...
But you are forgetful, what you really mean is kind bud,
sweet fire embering a time before
our kind was co-opted, taught to do the hot-skillet dance.
Let's all bow our heads to the resin that is infiltrating,
demanding that we take one last chance––
* Guided by a heat-seeking Trump. Eyes gazing upward, expecting to be showered with riches. Soon to be carpet bombed with shit.