(1)
What would Buk say?
She was one of the up and coming new poets on the college scene here in Cleveland. I guess I presupposed she would either write about the ‘hood or suburbia living or a spoiled brat taking it out on her parents by writing tough language poetry. But what I heard was an openness and a direct way of expressing herself. No flowery poetry for this lady. Something on the lines of a feminine Charles Bukowski, whom I greatly admired. I found myself clapping and shouting encouragement.
After the featured readers were finished, she was one of them, they had an open mic segment and I read. I was surprised she stayed and listened, but she did and got off on my stuff as well. It was a little raw and I was in one of those moods and wanted to shake the audience up a little more.
Later, after the reception, she came over and we started talking. We hit it off right away and started to compare notes on our favorite poets, writers, music and movies. She suggested we go out for food that night and I told her I was broke but wouldn’t mind cooking dinner for her at my place sometime.
“Why not now?”
“Okay, follow me home”.
I wondered what I was getting myself into. I’m in my fifties and she couldn’t have been much out of her twenties, slight, with a nice body. Why me? I didn’t bother with younger women because of my looks much less my poetry, but, what the hell? I was intrigued.
When we got to my place, I started to prepare Garlic Fish for us. I asked her do the potatoes and greens while I worked on getting a bottle of wine opened.
“You mentioned in a poem today you smoked reefer”, she said.
“Yes, there’s some in the freezer. Help yourself. Do one up for both of us”, I said.
She rolled a bomber big enough to choke a cow and we worked on the dinner, the wine and that joint.
“Why do you keep it in the freezer?”
“It stays fresher for longer periods of time because I get piss-tested pretty often. I smoke it only on the weekends.”
After we ate, we started to trade poems back and forth. She was good, very good. Her erotic stuff was tentative but drawn from her own experiences and sounded like she had only a few lovers. We sat side by side and got progressively closer the more stoned we became. First, legs touching and then a hand on an arm to emphasis a particular point. I leaned her way, looked in her eyes and kissed her neck. She responded with her hand taking my face and kissing me on the lips. I drew back and then slowly kissed her softly. Just little nibbles, no tongue. Just little teases and bites and went back to her ears and neck. I cupped her small breasts and she leaned back on the couch.
(2)
“Do you know what you are getting yourself into?”, I asked.
“Yes, it’s what I wanted from the moment I heard you read those poems about that bitch that fried your ass last summer”, she said.
“Okay. Let’s take a shower and do some exploring. You might change your mind then.”
“I don’t think I’ll change my mind. Just my undies. These are wet,” she said.
I cleaned up the kitchen a little while she used the bathroom. Didn’t close the door. Peeled off her clothes, sat on the pot and peed just as natural as could be. No modesty or worry’s. She is only the second woman I have even known that was comfortable with herself and an act like that and I appreciated it. I came in, brushed my teeth, stripped, got the water going in the shower and stepped in. She got in giggling. I like taking showers with women. It tells you something about them. What they care about the most. What needs cleaning first and last and just the feeling of water beating on you and what it does to them.
We soaped each other up laughing and paying attention to those areas that stood out. Like her nipples. Like my dick. All the while kissing and giggling as I poked her stomach with my hardon. I got on my knees and washed her pussy. Her bush was jet black but lightly haired. I parted it, running a finger around her clit and she moaned. She was wet and slippery and smelled wonderful. Not just from the soap, but from that lubricant that nature gives you for easy passage.
She leaned against the shower stall breathing heavy, concentrating on that point of light you want to go to. That release I wanted to give her. My tongue did some exploring of its own. My teeth biting the inner side of her thighs, on top of the mound, pulling the hairs. The tongue circling the clit again. Teasing it up hard and filled with blood. Vibrating. Thrumming.
“What would Buk say?”, she asked.
“A bush in the hand is worth two in the woods,” I replied.
“Come up here and kiss me,” she commanded.
I did while my dick had a mind of its own and slid between those young tight lips, finding a nice warm place to play.
The water beat down.
Two bodies wrinkling .
Two bodies joined and separating,
joining and separating,
bashing the wall in,
steam in the air,
on the skin,
the people downstairs
beating on the ceiling with a broomstick
but we didn’t pay them any mind.
I’ve seen her several times since then and her poetry is getting better all the time. Garlic Fish has a way of doing that to you. It’s good for your health and apparently your libido too. Thanks BUk, I owe you buddy.
a little help from my friends
bushmen lay facedown
on a hot savanna
sucking on a hill of dirt
filled with weed
prostrate in the eyes
of there God who is
wheeling in the hot air
above them
they want to see
beyond the horizon
to the distant shores
of grace and sense
an opium den
in southern China
welcomes regulars
to the smoke-filled
hovels of freedom
across the counter
in London
a man purchases
cocaine for an
abscessed tooth
when one doesn’t exist
we seek the truth
in our souls
from time immemorial
some choosing the
easy way out
with false prophets
and glad-handing
while others burrow deep
within
on their own
adrift in mistakes and
false starts and sudden
mind crushing ends
finding yourself isn’t the answer
its living with yourself
when you get there
growing old
for the first time
in my life
the veins in my arms
stand out
like highways
against the muscles
I thought it was because
I was growing stronger
because of blue-collar work
in factories that didn’t care
but I was wrong
it’s because
I’m growing older
and the fat is
parrying away
muscles becoming dryer
& at the end
of their life
in remission
I make a fist
see veins pop
and run blue
with blood
close to wrinkled skin
how strange it is
to be this strong
at the end of your life
& having the strength
to do everything
you wanted to do
& no time to do it
never mind
at least I recognized it
& appreciate the use
as long as I have it
I’ve been sleeping too long
& not paying attention
to the changes
I don’t want to be
ensconced
in an old folks home
doting sons
making small talk
thinking of hot pussy
waiting for them
after the obligatory
visit to the Old Man
I’d gladly trade this
for a night
out on the town
with them
searching for a really
Good Time
& sharing that thing
we need to make us
whole
I can’t complain though
at least I have eyesight
to see this change
going on against its will
attrition being a dirty word
I don’t think about
hindsight saying
it’s for the best
old dogs find
a quiet place
to die
young dogs
sniff the wind
brilliant with
desire
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