Summer 1998 • Vol. XX No. 3/4 Poetry |

Beat Me Daddy Eight to the Bar

Kissing you is more fun than anything I've ever done, including roller coasters and heroin. The din in my head takes a catbird seat to your taming teeth, a time-out bubble bath with dirt-bike magazines, a lollipop bribe in Humbert Humbert's dream. Kissing your mouth is a lot like trepidation: the payoff is inherent in the eager agitation. One, two, three—I'm lopped off, dropped off, ripcord-pulled and tamarinded, motion-scarred and barely winded. Ornate car crash of lick, hem my seam. And when you come, I know you'll come clean. Even your voice across the room brings my tongue mobbing to the back of my teeth, it's the woof inside the tweet, the know inside the don't. Corner me and breathe directly into my moat, song-strum my float, fist my fission. Kissing you is the opposite of cynicism. Nothing can go wrong in the tremulus of passion: even death is still, yes, is still about to happen.

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