QUIVER

Florescent hum in my ear while the sky turns over on itself, with the color of numbness and putrid wet dreams. These damn Ohio evenings, filled with second-guesses, guerrilla war, and hopeless-romantic tactics, have got me going through the motions of happiness, and smiling at the naivete which at least attempts to be concerned; even though they are much more interested in their own advances. They assume. They play helpful. You play the victim. And all the while, awareness creeps into your being like a slow-moving dump truck. Purposeful and heavy. Dripping wetness and the funk from too much urine lines the walls of home. It’s justified thoughtlessness and I’d like to add intellect to the conversations that wander in from moonlit dances. Naked and lusting and running in bare feet, with cramped up memories of Halloween and little black witches’ dresses that can keep Hell up all night. Waiting for the sleepy state of dawn, when choices do not come into it, and the body only does what it wants. The taste of things that are sweetly drenched in musty need quiver upon the sensation of tongue touches into it. Seeping nectars groan for mass, and the mouth shouts out please, and so it comes. Whoops.