Archive for April, 2013

In Her Room

April 28th, 2013

I solemnly lowered the zipper from her neck
to just below her breasts.  She lay there quietly,
her eyes intent on my face, her lower lip
(with that upturned crescent of scar, a pale
moon, just beneath it, I found so endearing)
gently sucked between her teeth, so I
ventured to lower it to her navel, slowly,
receiving neither protest nor approval.
She could have shrugged her arms out of
the jumpsuit’s sleeves just then, but she did not:
she lay there quietly, her eyes intent on my face,
her lower lip (with that upturned crescent
of scar, a pale moon, just beneath it,
I found so endearing) gently sucked
between her teeth, so I slipped my right hand
under the blue fabric that felt thick and warm,
under her breast, which one didn’t matter,
she lay quietly, intent, her lower lip
released, neither protesting nor welcoming.
I slid my hand up the flaccid mound to its
hard tip that I knew from other times I’d
peeled the fabric back was chocolate brown,
and rested there, it in my palm, her lower
lip once more between her teeth, her eyes
intent but inward as if having taken in
my face now she took it all the way in.
My hand rode the velvet of her steadily
breathing up and down, then down and
down the ribs rising and falling, past
flatness and rested over the well of her
navel that thrilled my palm as her nipple had.
Still she lay still.  A wildness had entered
her face, not resisting nor urging, so I
followed the slope of her belly down
to where the down thickened to a
scratchy thicket and the band of her
underpants held and pressed my fingers
the way her hand had held and pressed them
on her cheek just eternities ago, and under
that was skin folded and wrinkled as I
could not imagine, moist and warm as her
tongue.  Just then her mother rattled pots
downstairs in the kitchen and I withdrew
my fingers slick with lovely musk, and ever
after, her zipper  carefully, soundlessly drawn,
emptiness had new dimensions and layers.

land of chickenshits

April 18th, 2013

Some thoughts on the U.S. Senate’s failure to do anything about gun violence today, in the face of a filibuster.  The following came tumbling out of me in a comment on  Facebook, and I thought it worth repeating here:

As any thinking and feeling person must be, I am appalled by the intellectually threadbare, morally barren, opportunistically craven attitudes that give the gun lobby its political ascendancy. I’m not convinced that the gun control measures currently under discussion will actually do much to provide relief from gun violence, but if they could save even one life, they would be worth it. Against that, however, is counterbalanced the vast fearfulness that has made a lie of the claim of this country to be “the land of the free and the home of the brave” for longer than such a claim has been made. Fear of god, fear of indians, fear of black people, fear of brown people, fear of yellow people, fear of white people, fear of irish, fear of germans, fear of jews, fear of catholics, fear of communists, fear of working people, fear of government, fear of women, fear of men, fear of children, fear of adolescents, fear of illlness, fear of death, fear ultimately and most deeply of each other, whoever we are. Fear of losing their guns, which for so many of our fellow citizens are the fetish items that they use to hold these other fears at bay. We’ll know this is truly the land of the free and the home of the brave when that changes. It doesn’t really have all that much to do with filibusters.

Small Bore

April 14th, 2013

Last night I had one of those odd encounters that makes one question the place of reason in human affairs.  I was having dinner at our area’s sole Korean restaurant.  It’s not that great, but it’s not that bad, particularly if you avoid the Chinese items on the menu, which seem to be there mainly to provide something for those who think they like asian food but whose nerve fails them at the last moment as they venture upon this new ground.  At the table next to mine sat a man in his late sixties, with flowing grey hair, an impressive grey moustache, taupe dress slacks and a brown pendleton-style shirt, and a woman who was probably his wife.  I won’t describe her, because that is the best way to convey her passive demeanor as he held forth on a variety of subjects.  Judging by their dress, they were middle or upper middle class.  Judging by his vocabulary and manner of speech, he was a college educated, possibly retired professional of some sort.  In the small, quiet dining room, I couldn’t help overhearing his discourse and her occasional brief murmurs of assent to whatever he was saying.  So… dinner theatre, or background noise.  You choose.

At some point he caught my attention with a somewhat emphatic reference to “tree huggers,” and then he veered off to the topic of gun control.  He informed his wife that some people advocate protecting schools by placing armed guards in them with automatic weapons, paused as if thoughtfully, then said, “I agree.”  Pause.  “After all, how do we protect the president?  Wherever he goes, there’s a group of guys around him with guns.”  This last in the tone of voice one uses when delivering the clincher, slam-dunk, unanswerable argument.  Having done so, he moved on to his General Tso’s chicken, leaving me to swallow my unspoken rejoinders along with my haemool jigae.

Okay, so this is a guy with sufficient intellectual capacity to wield a fork, if not chopsticks, and to speak in reasonably grammatical, complete sentences.  On this basis alone, he should be capable of discerning without much more than an instant’s reflection the different situations of the President of the United States, target of the well organized and deadly animosity of a substantial portion of humankind, and on the other hand a bunch of, say, South Burlington first graders; he should be aware of the distinction between the highly trained, carefully selected, elite security professionals and the massive backup operation that supports them in safeguarding POTUS, on the one hand, and the type of schmo that is likely to end up patrolling the halls of George Washington Carver Elementary School in East Flea, Alabama, semi-automatic stuck in his waistband, on the other.  Not to mention that if even the Secret Service is subject to such occasional lapses as drunken whore-mongering, how much confidence can we safely repose in our bored pinkerton in East Flea?  Not to mention that mass shootings have taken places in schools with armed guards, and on army bases, yada yada yada.  Yet here is this man, in an unbuttoned moment, sharing his intimate convictions on the subject with his lifemate and captive audience, and his intimate convictions spring from a complete obliviousness to the real world.

How do you get through to these people?

I forgot to keep my eyes from closing

April 4th, 2013

I forgot to keep my eyes from closing
when I slid inside you.  How the rose sings
all around, around me, many-petaled.
Where are you?  In darkness whom I’m losing.