Expect a Series of BsAs pieces....

No title. A fetal draft.
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I think we are supposed to do something
romantic here: at the corner of a 1906
Rue de Fleurus and a 1965 East 47th

Street, beneath a coin-operated moon
made full with nine dimes and a nickel,
the street-orchestra playing a tune only

the paint-can drummer hears as his high
school sweetheart's favorite lullaby that
floats through a midnight mist of a blend

from Mendoza, I think, yes: quick! Take
off your clothes! The moon won't mind.
Quick! Open your mouth I will crawl

inside: skinny dip: swim in, swim out
of the gaps between your bicuspids,
wrap myself in the arugula left over from

the omelets we ate in the bed dampened
by the rainstorm the weathermen didn't
forecast on channel 9, 14 or 37, which

seemed reason enough to open the windows
and push the mattress onto the balcony.
Because that is what we are supposed to do.

Yes, isn't that what we are supposed to do?
Will you still love me if I become beautiful?
Find rhythm, my footing with the orchestra?

I wrap myself strategically in the arugula,
slip seductively from the corner of your lips,
glistening a slightly ashamed Eve for the

knowledge I swabbed from inside your
mouth: for the thought that perhaps the Book
of Chemistry, Spells, Science and Kama Sutra:

A Practical and Proven Guide for Self-Helping
to Find Self-Love, Self-Healing, Self-Improving
from the Hair on Your Toes to the Pimple

on the Back of Your Neck in Order to Attract
Your Perfect Mate and Keep Him Without
Holding Him Down Except for the Nights

When He Wants to be Tied, was written
for some ones other than ourselves; some
ones who know only one good variation on

the theme of things to do with two mouths.
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