fallen verses

Manifesto? We don’t need no stinkin…

Part of the mammoth reading list for the vacation was Gary Mex Glazner’s “How to Make a Life as a Poet.” More inspirational (?) stories of how to be a poet first and low-wage-earning-burger-slinger hopefully never. One of the essays, forgive me if I mangle the title, the book is in my room and I am down in the lobby, “How to Have Sex with Poets: A Manifesto” which inspired the poem below.

More Sex, Less Manifestos

after Glazner

I want to eat words off you like sushi-
pencils, chopsticks, and your naked abdomen
rippling like uneven line breaks.

I want to lick rhymes off
your breasts like whipped cream
and go hunting for a cherry
and chocolate sauce.

I want to eat your edible panties
and try the sex-without-love thing
and tell the truth later
when the champagne I poured down your back
has gotten me… tipsy.

I want to marinate myself in you,
absorb the sweet, smoky flavor of passion
so we can be stir-fry-crazy
with a Szechuan kick at the end of it all.

I want to be licked like a lollipop,
fill you like a pastry shell,
be that last bon-bon in your bubble-bath,
go down smooth: Goldschlager without the burn
but with the spicy cinnamon groove,
coat you in strawberry jelly and
myself in extra-creamy peanut butter
and we will definitely cut the crust off.

I want to pull you from the ocean like
Alaskan wild salmon and throw you back
just so I can catch you again.

I want you so hungry you lick the plate clean.

I want…
I want…
the neighbors to wonder how we eat
so many boxes of chocolate,
so many pints of ice cream,
so many cakes and pies
and never get fat

I want to answer them
with giggling and shrieking and lip-smacking
and finger-licking-good Happy Meals with toys for adults
and with the freezer door open
because we have to cool off somehow.