Cherry’s eyes catch waves
like koi in a rice paddy.
Her lips castrate
cacti and scorch
cornfields in Kansas.
Her legs capture escapades,
Cadillacs, and soft
midnight-moans,
The cat’s silk pajamas, catwalk,
cat shit, can’t catch cat shit in Kansas.
We strolled along gated sidewalks
littered with false-corpses and ivory teeth.
A couple passes us,
one of them screaming,
“Fuck Jerry! You crushed my dreams
with your drooping
neckline and beatnik staccatos.”
I laugh,
turn to Cherry and mimic,
“Fuck you Jerry for flooding me with your Allen Ginsberg sentences that litter my garbage with sunflowers and toy trains.”
I made this purple velvet suit I’m wearing
to say that I’m different;
God made her to say, “Fuck you.
I’m covered with amniotic hair,
maternal excretions,
and love that you can only
measure in decibels.”
She later asks me if I believe in God;
“I did until I dreamt of Jesus
who told me,
‘I give children to
sleep on Sunday’s,
knees to avoid
the hymns, and Psalms
to describe sex to
those wearing Victorian frocks.”
She tells me in stern humor
that I am absurd and “morning prayer
keeps the devil in despair.”
I’m also going to hell,
where there is no stage direction.
Her eyes now portray
gravity. “The only thing
I believe in are
cracks in the sidewalk
and Illuminati light bulbs.”
I’m pretty sure I love her
at this point like
finding crushed Viagra pills
in my gelato.
The date’s going well until
suspense kills
an asthmatic dog
already dying from
the cancer of society
located in its rectum.
I lean over the now dead dog and
whisper, “At least you didn’t die in an oven.
Instead, you conquered screeching tires
and halted traffic with your cries of reform.
You turned red lights green, and green lights yellow,
so as to bring droplets to the dry deserts
of my cheeks.”
She stared at my stooped form and dewy eyelashes
and cradled the inner workings
of my intentions.
My voice broke-
like an ancient phonograph,
just as I was about to denounce communism and
tell the world that I was done
with it’s rhyme schemes
formulated plot twists
and vampire endings.
I had enough of cherry blossoms
floating down like a
regal stained glass procession
on a breeze that just wanted to
unleash some expletives,
old men that promised
means and averages,
Freudian obsessions, and
Roman numerals,
and restaurant waiters that float
on Hollywood dreams
and know your darkest
secrets before ordering cocktails.
She took my shaking syllabic hand,
and told me of all the years she had laid with
only to find out that her mother had stolen time
and kept her youth through paintings of effeminate men
and prints of a van chasing sand-koi through the desert.
She told me that the only real thing in this world was my surrealism
and the dog, now burning on a funeral pyre.
I clasped her lips with mine
muffling her promises of tiramisu.
She stroked my flowing liqueured cheeks with rose-colored ladyfingers
and an espresso fragrance that somehow immersed itself with my shadow,
still hunched over the dog and reminiscing over shattered Italian light bulbs.
Her tongue professed that the time for cinematics was over,
that climaxes will rise and fall with condomized rouge curtain sheets
and all will applaud (or tremble) as she saps the bitter honey
from my dark chocolate ego and dwindling starlight.
She tells me that she loves me like finding a Spanish gold coin
hidden within the thorny trenches
of a fermented rose bush.
