Slip Me Another Biscuit

August rumbles – utilities truck tearing up
the concrete, looking for pipes and wires
to beat up, screw up, tie into new knots –
Feels like I gots
the rest of my life free.
Playin’ hooky for eternity.
Pleasures are too much for me

to talk about beyond, well, two. Let’s say,
perhaps, that in the divination of a couple random
secret vices that I quite forget about
right after I indulge in them,
I feel the promise of illumination.
Yesterday I ate a whole box of Wheat Thins
while watching Star Trek: Voyager,

and I cannot begin to tell you
how it made my time rhyme
to do so:
to renew no
aspect of them now
beyond the faint remembrance of just how
a kind of subspace glimmer

of a sweet-salt shimmer
changed my dimmer,
bumped me up to blinding light
then had me finding night
and all the dawn to dusk between:
crispness of those tiny squares,
keen outline of the breasts beneath that wide-eyed

blond girl’s glare of skintight body suit –
“Seven of Nine” was a Borg –
Heaven and wine to a straight man: lordy! –
slip me another biscuit –
trip me into the hiss of a dimension
in which I no longer need to want to fly –
I ride the stronger steed my blunter eye requires:

Gimme a cracker.
Lemme smack her
with my suddenly voracious heterosexed lips.
Oh, I’m still gay. But voyaging with Star Trek
and engorging with my Wheat Thins
sometimes makes me want to kiss
another way.

.