Where the upper arm meets the forearm
just beow the elbow on the backside
along the hard ridge of that arm bone
there's the bruise.
about the size of a quarter
green but yellow around the edges
this is where he grabbed you
to hold your arm back
erotically.
in the elevator of the westin st. francis
as it swished past the 28th floor your back to the glass wall
the downtownlights of san francisco
speckled and sparkling below
a soft fog rolling in to block the nearly full moon.
he pushed the buttons on the top ten floors
and pressed himself against the full length of you
his hand held tight on your arm
squeezing, a whimper fell out of you.
ten times the elevator lept downward leaving your
stomach a few inches out of place.
ten times you looked over his shoulder
eyes wide open his mouth on yours, expecting a
hotel guest dressed for a a fancy dinner at the
cheesecake factory, or a fancy drink in the hotel
bar, or maybe a bellboy pushing a now empty luggage
cart, his small navy and red round hat askew, sweat
beading on his forhead just below shortly shorn
dirty blond hair.
ten times the doors hushed open
revealing empty and identical hallways,
a small table with an oversized vaze
crammed with large white flowers, plastic,
a gilded mirror throwing your reflection
back at you, a heavily patterned industrial
carptet.
his face drew back from yours, his brown
eyes and long lashes looming, filling your view
his hand loose on your arm.
the hot sting and dumbing looseness of whiskey on your
tongue or his.
the elevator rushed you down, fast
the city dissappearing as you sank into it.
at the lobby two women who can barely stand
and reak of rum step in carrying their high heels and
jackets, as you push past.
just beow the elbow on the backside
along the hard ridge of that arm bone
there's the bruise.
about the size of a quarter
green but yellow around the edges
this is where he grabbed you
to hold your arm back
erotically.
in the elevator of the westin st. francis
as it swished past the 28th floor your back to the glass wall
the downtownlights of san francisco
speckled and sparkling below
a soft fog rolling in to block the nearly full moon.
he pushed the buttons on the top ten floors
and pressed himself against the full length of you
his hand held tight on your arm
squeezing, a whimper fell out of you.
ten times the elevator lept downward leaving your
stomach a few inches out of place.
ten times you looked over his shoulder
eyes wide open his mouth on yours, expecting a
hotel guest dressed for a a fancy dinner at the
cheesecake factory, or a fancy drink in the hotel
bar, or maybe a bellboy pushing a now empty luggage
cart, his small navy and red round hat askew, sweat
beading on his forhead just below shortly shorn
dirty blond hair.
ten times the doors hushed open
revealing empty and identical hallways,
a small table with an oversized vaze
crammed with large white flowers, plastic,
a gilded mirror throwing your reflection
back at you, a heavily patterned industrial
carptet.
his face drew back from yours, his brown
eyes and long lashes looming, filling your view
his hand loose on your arm.
the hot sting and dumbing looseness of whiskey on your
tongue or his.
the elevator rushed you down, fast
the city dissappearing as you sank into it.
at the lobby two women who can barely stand
and reak of rum step in carrying their high heels and
jackets, as you push past.
Hey. Just thought I'd drop a quick note to say that I've been reading through the poems on your blog and I think that there's some really great stuff on here. I'm looking forward to reading more.
Posted by
Thomas Moronic |
1:01 AM
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