Some Place Went To

You can drive this old truck outside.
There are a lot of roads, but not all are paved
And not all are roads.
The door opens like it's exhausted of doing so.
It has a voice, like all the other parts in there.
You can sit in the seat that's the shredded victim of decades
High above what you're used to in your regular car.
You can see out the window past a single windshield wiper
Into a fence, but what more through?

This truck will drive through a field
A field that would normally cut or mist your bare legs
You would normally hear 1000 horny insects in that field
But the truck is old, and the engine is large, and loud
So you only hear the antique roar on the wind.
But those cicadas are still hollering.
And there are probably other things hollering there too.
And maybe someone else is at a distance, and they can hear all that
plus the muffled distance of your truck.
They might think that you're disrupting nature
Or they might think the sounds go nice together, layered.
Or they might think nothing about it at all
Because they're horny themselves, and maybe they're even doing the deed, right then and there, in the middle of a field.
And you may see this from the cab of your truck,
or you may not.

While gears shift inside the truck and make it work.
A person shifts inside the truck and moves with it.
Wind hits the truck, or does the truck hit the wind first?
The truck shifts inside the open air it tramples through smoothly
Not young, but not finished.
And it's days are numbered in miles.

Beast

This cat's ear flinches with dream
He knows he can claw the quietude
And be mesmerized into a curl of rest
By no sound but the house buzz of air conditioning
Restrained warmth through fans and vents
And restrained light through screens

This cat is old.
When he walks to his food, he walks with a different time signature.
It once was the 4/4 of youth , now limping
punctuated with an extra beat
The same stumble for every destination
Food downstairs, drink upstairs, sleep anywhere.
But this cat can sleep in a picture window
Where some kind of light moves in different places at once
and can flicker with his thoughts
Whatever plunks on the surface from outside is at mind's reach
A hummingbird on the pane doesn't know he's in a phantom chase
with the beast behind glass.
And this cat is still old
But somewhere, he is moving.

Sandra's Magnetism

Sandra's magnetic orgasm made her piercings stretch in her skin, and
all the metal stuff in the room hurled towards us.
My watch stopped, although I didn't notice it at the time, and her
high school trophies fell off the bookshelf, the lights fluxed,
I think maybe even the iron in my blood
was caught up in it? (X-Men style) Now I know
why she doesn't keep her computer in her room.
After it was over, Sandra said, “That's nothing.
Last time I used a vibrator,
my grandfather with the titanium hip got stuck against the wall, and
my dad's car crashed into the house. It was a huge scene.”

“Well, in that case I'm glad I'm not the Terminator,” I joked.
It seemed pretty clever to me, until she sighed,
“Every guy makes that joke. Or something like it.
It's always,'hasta la vista baby,” or 'pity the guy with the prince albert' or 'magneto would be proud.' (I was actually thinking that one too, damn.) “It was cute the first few times,” she said. “Now it's just like small talk to me.” She sounded dissapointed.
Small talk. How weird it must be for something like that to become a boring old phrase, the proverbial “How was school today?”
“Is that the price you pay for sleeping around a lot?” I asked, immediately feeling bad, it came out a little too harsh.
“I mean, do you regret
that it's commonplace? That telling people
about the magnetism, and the crazy stuff,
is just another detail?” It's strange to me, at least
that it's not not personal for her. Maybe the first time
that she told someone it was personal. Unless it still is?
“It doesn't bother me,” she said, holding my hand and tracing
her fingers over it; the language of dainty friction. “I'm just
used to it.” She bent down. Way down. I fumbled to adjust angles.

She put an ear up against to me
“Your ass sounds like an airport”
Which part?
“The main one.”
Concourse A?
Funny.
Your ass sounds like a washing machine.
Thanks.
It's bigger than one, anyway.
What kind?
Any kind.
Some models are bigger. They're industrial sized, or made for handling particular types of fabric, or they may be a smaller kind suited for small house with one person, or have energy saver preferences.
Ok.
Noise would also factor in. Between the different kinds of machines. So which one does mine sound like?
The main one.
You need to be specific.
You weren't specific with me
You didn't ask me to be. You made the concourse joke and then changed the subject.
Well would you have elaborated?
On what?
On what “the main part” of the airport is so I could know what it sounds like.
Probably.
Cool.
Now what kind of washing machine is my ass?
It's a Whirlpool. 3200 series.
Fuck you.
That's the only model I know by heart.
Fuck you.
What's for breakfast?
Your translucent dick.
It's translucent now?
Yeah. I cut it off and replaced it with an x-ray fish while you were sleeping.
Wow.
Have fun with it.
I will. I was always kind of curious what that'd be like.
Glad I could help.
How do we have sex now, though?
We don't.
We don't?
That's kind of the point.
I can make money in a freakshow this way.
Yeah you can.
I'm going to.
Get on out there.
I am.
Good night.
.

I can pee out of my eyes.

dHarMa

Slam it on son with you beerslopped appeal
Coppin' the senses for cravin' a feel
Icewicket Baby, bodacious tangle
I too once crooned for the hairy dangle

Ten-Assed Summer

when I was a young'n not yet growed
I had lemonade in my veins err'vy summer
I hadda vortex gullet like a cockpine barber handle
old sludge tits here
took 'em into the dusty mason jar, behind a nostalgia log
burly treesap crustin' gramma
stumbling out from behind the pollenated trellis
arms like windsocks, the flab tethered love worms
“It smells like honeysuckle here,” she crooned
wheezerasped with laughter
a half eaten toblerone sticking out of a shirt pocket
oh shit, diatoms
----
Tenacity, n: The state of possessing ten asses.