THOSE OF US WITHOUT AC
My childhood dog Prince scratches at the door of my dreams.
Goodnight, Sweet Prince, you champeenship leg-humper—
that rhythm, the only metrics I’d ever need.
I get lost counting the stresses of the bass in a juiced-up motorized
thump machine idling in front of the apartment building next door
either dropping off or picking up drugs at 3 a.m.
Prince is humping to the beat in some doggie porn film.
Does a dog get turned on watching other dogs?
I’m sure they’ve done studies. It’s 95 in June in Pittsburgh,
and that ain’t right. Fan of God take away the sins of the world.
Why won’t anybody let me say Amen?
We’re baking shrouds of Turin into our sheets
tonight while the young and brave and passionate
may be fucking themselves into small puddles where exotic creatures
with life spans lasting till dawn breed themselves into oblivion.
The night’s dark windows and the air studded with humid ghosts
leave us gasping for life. I want to dream the simple dreams
of a dog, my legs dancing and twitching. That’d be enough,
you old dog, Prince. Prince of Darkness, Prince of Everlasting
First-Death tears. If you wrapped me in this wet sheet
and threw me out the window, I would fly.
It’s a matter of faith, like any poem
with God and dog in it.
Many Americans have never eaten a fresh fig. I blame fig newtons and dried figs - those are NOTHING like a fresh fig.
Pure hard sun naked in the sky
is part of it. A tree drapes itself over
a stone wall, dripping with the sex
of ripe figs.
I looked at a hundred
other words, but sex it is.
How can they not expect us
to pick them? Just two, one
for each of us?
We are expelled from the Garden
daily. Our children nap in the shade.
Getting lost is inevitable and impossible.
The figs open up to wet flesh, soft with seeds.
We are in Spoleto, Italy, living in the apartment
of an opera singer on tour
but we could be next door to you.
We could be offering to pay for the figs,
A little wicked shame on our faces.
A dark room of afternoon heat
is another part of it.