PRESSURE PRESS ARCHIVE
SEX
this cock of love
i haven't felt the condition of an instant erection since teenage years, save for awakening hard-ons. i remember the sudden tug & pull instigated by maybe the perfume of an aunt in the room. i played pocket-pool many times at family functions when so urged. & my girlfriend kathy, she came to expect me pulsing unzippering my pants, a straight bone to heaven. immersed inside a multitude of girls, acidic juices perhaps ate away instantaneous reaction; or the female reaction to sex eventually alienated serendipitous muscle to a cautious slug. aged, my cock is a lonely, war-weary veteran of consequence & a crazy lady: hard-on, slapped across the face with a board; hard-on, slapped across the face with a board; she wants my fluttering tongue.
unembellished facts
(for mark weber)golden, blue-legged flame clicks on & off. with chain-saw fingernails, sawdust, sand, cupcake crumbs, a pinch of dead ants, fill screened bowl. it all lights delicious halloween-orange. inhalation at 6:10 a.m. listening to grackles high-note pre-dawn silvering blackness, & a long hoot of mourning dove ripples my fresh, italian coffee. may 3rd, saturday, kyonishiki zen incense inside my square room blends with smoked herb, nicotine, & my fresh-brewed italian coffee: an empirical carnival!
lenny isn't joking
she looks like such a sweetheart, the face of a much-loved girl, beauty at the brink of raging tender aura, bright-eyed & smiles. guy on the couch beside her resembles a skinned boar. he grunts as she unzips him, & he says nasty things, & she bends down & nothing is as holy as her closed eyes & full mouth hypnotizing moments in a dream.
plan C
inserting my bones be comedic flirting flash cash underwater tendons harp filet array physical beckoning water of teeth electric cum
morning rain
i'm always writing poems on rainy mornings stoned, based here in my spot, tipped like the head of a wavering, pink anemone while what goes by goes by, comets, that perfect meteorite, eyes of a girl named kara, diane being grouchy, radio-waves lacing ultra-violet spectrum, array of zen magic in passing coffee, & while it rains & the grass greens & leaves untwine like the flavor of red licorice, i waver here writing a poem with pebbled fingers, my head in the ass of the world.
dear reader
i know you know what i know, what i realize you also realize, period. we are both brains in human skull, have grown from children, orgasmed much, paid multitude of taxes. i even went to college 25 years ago, but maybe that's different from you, that i forget everything but some people & parties & ann in new hampshire, perhaps entire lives are different altogether totally, & there is no way to communicate, to duplicate falling stars & the halloween moon on chocolate mescaline.
growing up with the kids
rachel smokes cigarettes, newport 100's, 17, downstairs now. i don't know how long she's been hiding in her room & smoking, but i guess a year or two. i was 15, a drummer in a rock & roll garage band playing at "the halfway inn" on a friday night, mom in the audience (my dad was working) & i forgot i had a pack of old golds in my pocket, which she saw, & she sd honey i don't like it but go ahead & smoke here in front of me, & the band was great that night, innocent country couples slow-danced to three dog night & the vietnam war was real & nobody expected this history these last 3 decades later, my mother kicked her addiction. i haven't. doug wants to pretend to smoke a tipped cigar he finds in my jacket. he pretends at 11. diane scolds us there in the kitchen. she doesn't allow cigars in the house.