What is the motive force minuscule determinate in the sixth sense of the pheromone pocketed and how do we know the difference between the breadbaking and the attraction of the silken sheets in which we have slid when from the kitchen that warm welcoming wetness of the rising reaches all around us intertangled and mouthing and so everafter when we salivate we are sexually and intimately within the maker removed?
Annie I hate you.
Annie I hate you.
I'm coming to grips with it.
Let me say it again.
I hate you, Annie. Annie I hate and I'm shaking I hate you. For ever making me feel like that I hate you so that I cannot but compare you to any other feeling known and Kim.
Catullus in all his intimate flashbang shaking up those first Lesbian stanzas so ultimately love presseth into his mastered Roman dactyls stampeding toward the quatrain hardness like a Bird in hand pecking pecking thin fires into kisses and then that Claudia bitch went up the totem of a better birth or money and left eternal talent and glory everlasting of you as to affect Shakespeare, to strike Donne, to wobble febrile and lonesome into Dylan Thomas and Ginsberg who could not all have written anything whatsoever or even maybe been without knowing first through him the inverse of the mastery of pain nor knowing to write from the most compassionate edge of the coin, coin without width, where hate and love join, so that every word of love was already an infected hate requiem and every word of hate hearkened back to the succotash love. To this a smell like honeysuckle that coin laid on the eyes of the dead. To this a smell of pigshit.
Try that on your pheromones.
I lash out.
Suddenly I am standing in my tower I discover, standing pacing a mere magistrate half-pace and ducking the beams. Suddenly I have to pee, to leave my tower, signal for the relief sergeant for just a moment to man my place so that I may not vomit here on the floorboards.
I realize it, you are leaving. You have left, Annie. You left long before I knew recognized admitted inwardly despite the signs in sheets and clothes and shaving. And maybe Joe would hear me if he were well but he is so, so far away just one tower down and I am made more aware of my loneliness, my frailty, my insecurity child chiming need to talk, talk, talk, because of the dual edge of your withdrawal, both of you.
Hah, this really hurts, let me tell you the bread scent of Kim baking beside me in all its detail loving her because I loved you or instead of I loved you or confused and tumbled together and inseparable in me from you, damn you, darker than you, headier, rounder all around, softer, yielding where you are hard and fun and acrobatic in bed and I could tell you a thousand things just to make stand stiffened the hair on your neck's nape, I remember soft and wet with sex prickling now and it tastes in my mouth between my mouth and my nose like hayfever, like antiseptic, the numbing, the dear.
We didn't even make it out of the parking lot gravelly to the side of that alley that bowling.
I saw the cherry throbs of Joe's taillights going, going gone and felt just a first stabbing remorse, like jealousy but subtler because I could not be jealous of Joe nor of you in what I perceived to be kindness, intimate insight, a Magi promise delivered unto me that you would know me so well to salve me from my Kimthoughts and Kim what-ifs this night uplifting toward our hell; how did I know that you had Joe what-ifs too?
Like a gulp in my throat, like a billygoat gruff, I gripped the wheel steering with one hand and the other Kim still warm shouldered, her hand on my hand on her strappy neckline.
Fuck me she said.
Just like that.
Jesus.
I had never expected it.
Talk about blasting away at the glittergold and thrashing the psalters and upearthing the little flagends rusting in the berms, all the uxory of America, all the commercials condensed into not just, or rather than, love, lust, where it is instead of commerce airbrushing pixilated lies more like the bruise me, batter me, be man over me overlording because I want the damnation, that was exactly what I had not expected, nor the right there in the red blur of the street her naked quick as baking nipples French stiff and my softness unzipped nervous yielding up to her lips her frame contorting across the bucket of the seat, my Chevy I sold for you and the boys, and as she wet me and rose and fell with me in her mouth and touched herself anticipating me in her hard she said to me: drive.
Drive?
Drive home.
Home, whose home? Watch it. Flagpole, telephone, streetsweeper.
Your home, coming up for breath.
What if . . .
They'll use the other bedroom or something.
She'd an excuse for every eventuality and what can a man do but sin when she's already down around him and heaving and the buntcake salt pungency of her readiness wafts deadly as henbane in the cockroach scattering of the night?
Buntcake: love and fear like white icing on stench.