Songs of Solomin, Sorta. (Excerpt)
A friend told me that I should write a poem about…
Similes setting super seductive scene six year olds shouldn’t see.
Ink imagery illustrating intimate moments.
Draw audience attention toward painted picture.
Describing feel of fingers tracing down center of back,
Making hairs sprout up like plants as they pass
Or how heart races against sweat that sprints over panicking palms
Plagued with parkinson’s as they press over unclothed core
Desiring more as they move up from floor to floor
Finishing at top story where climax is reached
Closing chapter to vulnerable narrative, revealing nothin’ but naked truth
That leave crowds collectively contemplating all that is carnal
Plenty poets in past and present have painted portraits pertaining to penetration…
Pinning partner in a plethora of damn near professional positions…
Exaggerated echoes of awe and endurance of act…
Seems as if results of romance have been so romanticized,
That it’s art has suffered.
Hanging crooked in art gallery of time, observed by those who pass by.
Some obsessed with how it feels,
yet not taught how to feel it.
Other convicts cover face from frame, fearing their eyes will commit crime, objectify
Which saints see as sin worthy of gouging out own optics, toss them into pit of fire
And we’re left to step back and observe before we touch curves
Examine how boys are taught to treat it like forbidden fruit ate by Adam
Heeding many warnings presented by pops who says not to get into shoe box under bed
Knowing damn well you will.
And when you do, you are exited from garden of innocence
Loosed to a land that labels you, Goliath…
Take what you want.
Football locker room be church where players be put on game on how to prey on women.
Baptize mind in magazines and fantasies that you carry into adult world.
Believing intercourse to be a class that is all about scoring,
And doesn’t require part where you study her body of work.
For our counterpart is crafted with much more complicated wiring
That we just can’t hook up with when we find an opening.
We must communicate, ask questions,
Not questions like…. “you like that?”
But….. “who or what made you like that?”
Creating space where she shares her universe with you
Spitting galaxies into your world like an open mic where you are only one in attendance
Trustfully hand you key for room in back of heart
Holding handful of emotional scars and battered confidence
That you’re given Sacred permission to put hands over
Not just to feel them,
But in Hope that you help heal them.