I move my body meat smell next to yours,
Your spice of Zanzibar. Mine rains, yours pours—
Sex tropics as a way to not be dead.
I don’t know who we are except in bed.
I’ll tell you someone I’m not happy with—
But no I won’t. I won’t destroy the myth.
The president of the United States
Is caught between those two tectonic plates,
Republicans and Democrats, the nude
Alternatives to naked solitude.
It’s politics, it’s tropics, and it’s warm
Enough to arm the sunrise with a car alarm
That’s going off and starts the earthquake shake
And shiver, shiver, of the sobbing steak.
O sweet tectonic fault line and sweet lips
Exuding honey that the cowboy sips.
I float in fluid to the other shore.
Ninth month. I scramble up the dune. I snore
Awake at sunrise with a snort. I turn
To touch the socket of the softest fern.
I got in line to vote and right away
I thought of you and years and yesterday
And how so much had changed and how it’s true
Things do get better when you want them to.
My face between your thighs is resting there.
I’m happy staring at what makes me stare.
I see the psalm and it’s a woman’s labia,
My pornographically all-mine Arabia.
America keeps waiting to begin.
It’s sunrise dripping from my chin.
It looks like spring out there on Broadway meant
Barack Obama to be president.
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