So I'm cleaning everything out of my closet. Everything-everything. A salesman in my head whispers, "Everything must go!" Indeed. I am moving soon. Everything that's not critical to my long-term betterment is going into the trash.
One of the items in my closet is a book of "refridgerator poetry," a collection of submissions to a kind of magnetic poetry contest. I guess it was a contest. It became a book with magnetic word sets, and so I wrote a few things. For many years I had stuck to the bottom of my lamp, "May a teacher teach with the intensity that a bomb can burn." That's an intensity level that few instructors ever reach, I suspect.
Inside the magnetized front cover is a rather racy poem I wrote, sans punctuation (because they didn't provide any magnetic commas or periods, natch). I believe it was between 2004-2006. I think it's worth preserving:
love his tongue
all up on my skin
morning day and evening
use shower dry off and leave
stagger to work smelling
minutely like blossoms
people like these secrets
she pages him as you ask
what when how
why was ed over there
after dark
did he consume the wild sister
through her lace
I say go at er if you want
slice bruise
we are out of this
use
The "ed" was a verb ending I had nowhere to use, and I believe the "use" was a leftover word. Initially I switched the places of "ed" and "use," so use was more like youse. The last line changed to, "We are out of this, Ed." That darned Ed. But the original is something to behold from random words in a pouch.
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