Surge of Rivers
You weren't like those Modigliani women in prints tacked upon my
wall, how they suffered, melancholy compressing dry their futures.
Opening your blouse, sepia areolas flaming out, your riperain eyes
fogged with sinsemilla clouds I blew from my lips. You
recommended I rid myself of old-fashioned pathos, its moated
fortress. The residential hotel room elicited sighs from gouges in
furniture, harsh words stuffed in old chair cushions, longing graphite
from chewed #2 pencils, unslackened dust motes streaking the lamp
light, indentations of betrayal snagged between loose carpet
threads. Your shadow canted against the shabby nighttime fate
of low-watt bulbs. My life inwardly torqued splendor, its
antecedents, presumptions, whatnots of glory. Beauty will save the
world, Dostoyevski wrote. Closing the door, the knob became
erogenous in your hand, enhancing Dos's philosophy. After inhaling
poppers, I threw off dumb bondage, its lineaments cliched with
despair, like Faberge eggs I'd think of the following day, one inside
another until Antarctic fissues disenthralled my reclusive habits,
cracking apart its utopian misery. I eavesdropped on blood cells,
low frequency elan vital, as they swam through our marrow. I
roamed your buttocks, listening simultaneously to each speck of
bleary plaster-board complaints from those obsolete walls. Slipping
between your legs, I heard neurotransmitters unloose dopamine,
endorphins moaning pleasure. Pores opened, breached, our
high-bouncing flesh encouraged deep breaths despite sweat-stale
ventilation. Our talents did its necessary but revered violence.
We felt like proud athletes.