to Very Long Kisses
Having had the misfortune of several
years without any of these sessions,
and yet having experienced thereafter
and ever since such a lovely sum of
seemingly endless, warm, happy
durations of lips pressed onto
lips, and with a partner other
wise entwined and mobile
(legs, arms, spine, etc.),
what effervescent mem
ories, and what hell-bent
desire burns in me to know
first-hand that penultimate
flurry of ecstasy again. A
cessation of such sensations
might be just the thing to keep
one alive in such times as these,
not just a drought but a prolifera
tion of disastrous distancing and
disconnections that have led to such
a dizzying, fogheaded retreat that
leads me further and further along
this bleak path toward some solitary
center. And what if I find my way
there, wending through a thorn-
filled muck? What if I reach my
very center? Does one have
it in him to then turn around
and find a way out again?
And not only out of me
but out the door and
onto, where, say, a
dancefloor, say,
Peru, say, I
have arr
ived at the
airport and would
I be on time, would I
even be, as in have yet
to kick the bucket? I
used to travel the world.
I used to be a cartographer.
What else might be pressed
softly by a pair of lips spending
an evening in each other’s comp
any? And that is to say nothing
of the tongue. How to keep these
of my own uncracked, and not yet
casketed, before they see such
borders and such boundaries
once again explode?
seemingly endless, warm, happy
durations of lips pressed onto
lips, and with a partner other
wise entwined and mobile
(legs, arms, spine, etc.),
what effervescent mem
ories, and what hell-bent
desire burns in me to know
first-hand that penultimate
flurry of ecstasy again. A
cessation of such sensations
might be just the thing to keep
one alive in such times as these,
not just a drought but a prolifera
tion of disastrous distancing and
disconnections that have led to such
a dizzying, fogheaded retreat that
leads me further and further along
this bleak path toward some solitary
center. And what if I find my way
there, wending through a thorn-
filled muck? What if I reach my
very center? Does one have
it in him to then turn around
and find a way out again?
And not only out of me
but out the door and
onto, where, say, a
dancefloor, say,
Peru, say, I
have arr
ived at the
airport and would
I be on time, would I
even be, as in have yet
to kick the bucket? I
used to travel the world.
I used to be a cartographer.
What else might be pressed
softly by a pair of lips spending
an evening in each other’s comp
any? And that is to say nothing
of the tongue. How to keep these
of my own uncracked, and not yet
casketed, before they see such
borders and such boundaries
once again explode?
