My wife hosted her annual erotica slam at our slam venue and I wrote the poem below just for the occasion. My hands were tied behind my back as part of the show. I’m not kidding.
Optometry
Let’s pretend that ass
is the cyclops from The Odyssey
and my tongue’s a sharpened olive club;
it’ll make more sense when you yell “no one”
when I ask “Who else treats your pucker
like a five star supper?”
Let’s pretend that ass
idles like a truck outside Home Depot
looking for day laborers to put up dry wall
and my mouth’s the cheap labor
who ruins your frame and foundation.
Let’s pretend your ass cheeks
are storm clouds in Haiti;
when I go to part them
you shout “not now, too soon.”
I’ve made my hand a duck drowning
in your pond, watched vodka
and my futon cock block me
when I wanted to get it on,
let you redeem me like a coupon
but the world needs to know
the Kama Sutra below your waist,
how much I love to let my face
crash into your taint like a dead end,
my tongue writhing like gasoline
and flame.
I know I could wear Hep B
like a retainer, coat my throat
in atoms of what you had for lunch
but when you moan like iron gates
at an abandoned mansion,
the news will report a rash of people
found in hotel tubs, drowning in ice
and missing their livers.
I take what I do seriously
until you set a bounty
for the pages in dictionaries
and thesauruses that have
some variation of the word “enough”
so you can fold them into children
and abandon them.
So tonight, after you hear this,
we’re going into a public bathroom.
I will kiss you until your lips have epilepsy
before I make that ass an edible rosary.
