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| robert b. weide, west, poisongirls, help, art, bars, freplyspang, french/appendices, cd, rap, local, classified, tees, comedians, | The man spreads his legs. You look. You lean in. The neighbor is shaking out a newspaper. You let the image in your newsweekly mind and the body in front of you merge. newsweekly You are playing God, mixing a remembered face and an available body. You are surprised how easily your mind trips when you allow it to. Tripping is illogical, against your grain of habit. You kneel down on the fresh cut grass and the cool cotton, and newsweekly the man’s hot penis is in your mouth. The man’s dog is slurping water from an aluminum bowl and the cars pass on the distant overpass, and without turning to look, you know that in the fading light the mass of headlights appears like a candlelit procession. The evening sky is stained with gray cloud, and he has a firm grip on your head. You touch a scar running down the side of his left thigh. He tells you, hurriedly, that he was knifed by a burglar in his divided Jerusalem. |
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| You are tuned to the smell of sweat on the west skin of his scalp and his neck. Is this the closest we come to cannibalism, you wonder? In the next instant you want nothing more than to stand in west the shower and take in his breath—the west taste of salmon and salad and a vinaigrette dressing. You are not content to make love to the water. Because with your senses awakened so is your power of analysis. You are seeing, feeling, hearing. You are processing. Now it doesn’t make sense. Now it does. So, you wish the man to step in the shower and enter you from behind and you want the water to flow. The man will say something about the moon and his lawn and how he wants to fuck you under the stars, and enveloped by the affectionate smells of antibiotic soap and talcum powder you follow him. You are running a hand up his cotton robe, and its hieroglyphic pattern reminds you of the checked lungi a neighbor wore, the broad-shouldered middle-aged bank clerk who read the newspaper sitting on his front steps as you walked to school in your native India. |
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