So this is my first sincere attempt at stream of consciousness/prose poetry for years, so let me have it - tell me what works, what doesn't, what's cliche, what's novel, etc.
Consciousness
I watch “Annie Hall” and think of you. Your clothes, often inexplicable but flattering on your body, flattening or curved I don’t care, short or long hair even shaved bald but shaved or not I don’t care, your legs your space are both places you can dominate yourself, at least for now – I only want to be part of you, the Bible the only inspiration and prevention of becoming one flesh. A hug and I wish I was an ice cube, an embrace let me sublimate or evanesce or whatever it takes to drip into your pores, be inhaled into your lungs, soaking into you like your own sweat I haven’t broke you into because I don’t know how without darkening out of the grey area my grey matter dances in as I dance with you, pulling closer and tasting your lips, neck, any little excuse for a glimpse of how close two bodies can become. I want you to breathe hard, I want sighs and exultant exhalations escaping into my ears, I want to memorize your hopes, explore your desires, destroy your fears as we face the road coming at us our lifetime per hour. I want to fight whatever fading space makes, clichés of falling out or wandering off and wander together under warm sunlight or under clothes, I want to feel our toes intertwine or our legs like our fingers do when life’s put on pause for those five minutes before our video cassette lives play on tracking offbeat and a little fuzzy. I want to know what you want and give it to you when you least expect it, when you don’t even know you want it – Discover more than you ever thought of yourself through me, through a unity of ink, dripping truth onto spirals as slowly or quickly as you can – I want to no longer want, to have and to hold, to do what everyone tries to do and break the mold – the only difference is that your mouth on my neck and my sweater sunken over your shoulders and breasts and mislocated, perfect belly button too low for your hips with their propensity to sway when your blackbelt-disarming eyes cut through my own humors and feel my soul even better than me in my endless scouring for meaning, all add up, square root, multiply and never divide or subtract to this proof of an equation that’s so masterfully crafted I know this thing, this dual heartbeat, this magnum opus, this poet’s conceit, works.
1st Week of November, 2007