sweet nothings and cinnamon twists

Her thick sunbelt legs
and hips heaven-sent
move my common sense
close to hell bent.

You see, what she displays
sways in slow motion
like hourglass specters from my past
trying to catch up with me.

She takes steps that sound like matches
striking against the years and tears
of my accumulated grit and grime.

These blushing neon letters
flashing "NOW OPEN" over my nose
keep giving me away,

and I stay in that tug of war
between being a player or a prayer.

Solomon considered the ways of ants,
but I imitate their attributes
whenever I chase sugar-coated commitments
which melt under high degrees
and end up as syrupy deferred dreams
of "happily ever after."

Her "come hither" stare
and soft sonar voice
make it hard for me to tell
a Hershey kiss from a Judas kiss,

too caught up in her curves
to even stop and discern this:

when I was a young fool being schooled
in "Ms. Right" advice and 80/20 offers,
I had to see that she needs to be BBD:

Blessed
Beyond
Dress

or else that girl is poison
like Rappaccini's daughter.

Will she spike my champagne glass
with chameleon liquor,
changing me for her better
and for my worst?

Will I just get on her nerves
like waiting behind the old lady
in front of the convenience store line
who keeps scratching and buying
just one more lottery ticket?

I could wrestle with her
in the middle of one night
just for the fun of it,
but I would wrestle
with the demented desire
to slice my wrists with jagged flashbacks,
sealing the envelope of my fate
with a horizontal figure eight.

I would go to pieces like Osiris
as my jigsaw identity is spread
across an atlas where phallic resurrections
define my manhood as sowing seeds
without commitment to any one womb,

even if that leaves me empty like Christ's tomb.

I finally wake up and trust
that just like the gnostic gospels
and the New Testament,

we simply don't belong together.

She struts away from my sight,
leaving my confidence hanging
like strange fruit
over a long line of Joneses
who claim to be the world's greatest sexplorers.

Yet, many guys don't come back alive
or even in their right mind
when they invade those temples of doom
sliding up and down stripper-pole pillars
in another dark bedroom.

But today's temptations
bring tomorrow's sorrows,
and I'm blessed to be one survivor
who learned from the turns and tumbles
taken during my undercover quests
for feminine flesh without the vows.

Now I'm praying for patience
in the temple of the Holy Ghost,
waiting for my missing rib
to cross the threshold sprinkled
with white and red rose petals.




Copyright 2007. Streetlight Publications.