.
.
Since
neither you nor I remember – therefore
can’t
retain the barest sensory recall – of nearly
fifty
years ago, yet sit here with each other anyway
for
reasons we don’t know – unfathomable but not silly
or
ridiculous – since now we are the phantoms of each
other’s
tossed experience, not of then but now,
somehow
the light surrounding us attains to shadowed
tints
and rinses of another life, neither yours nor mine
.
nor
ours – but a life we are invited to investigate –
as
if we both had made a date to do it: a life that will
requite
vicariously anyway: precariously too, I’ll bet.
And
yet. I think I feel requited. No. I spoke, I always
speak,
too soon. My life has lain, my life is lying fallow,
plain
and plainly fed with little. Rhymes with spittle.
Have
you ever used your tongue to kiss? Oh, I’m sorry,
that’s
amiss as well. I’m plainly under someone’s spell.
.
Maybe
it’s the life we haven’t looked at yet. The light
surrounding
us attains to the organic rich fluidity
of
body stains like blood and semen, urine and saliva,
sweat,
pus and feces, bile maybe too, but there I go again,
disgusting
you, and speaking of the Great Untoward.
Let’s
go forward. Yes, I know, I rhyme the easy rhymes.
They’re
never clever. Time and Grime and I’m
the
last beginning that was possible. Did you play softball
.
when
you were a boy? I never knew exactly what an inning
was.
I lied, though, no, I didn’t never use my tongue
to
kiss. I used my tongue to kiss your lips, then slipped it in,
then
slid it south. You seemed to welcome it, then punched
me
in the mouth. I loved the taste of my own blood,
its
history would have you in it. You welcomed it, you know.
Tell
me your name, Steven. What? Your name is Joe?
Yes,
well, I remember Joe as well.
.
.
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