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I don't even know where this poem came from. It really must have been possession, because this isn't very much me. Or is it? Well, its certainly innuendo.

the subtle innuendo ending all innuendos. she is the only friend of yours, red, who thinks you're good enough for her. she is terribly beautiful and where were you all day. down by the river, with me. on the shiny meniscus skittering like a water bug, the oar legs the hull the awkward bodies, pressing out and over, making wakes enough that their dancing plays the pond's ripples into a watery fractal. watery fractal. dowse. how clean is the clarity? this water in which my oars dip. the water through which i cut, the water which slaps the hull like a drum. playing my vessel. a vessel. to be in a vessel, to be your vessel, to let you be my vessel. to enter and expose, the folds of flesh opening and closing around like the water taking in my oar, like the water buoying my blue kayak. slapping its hull, slapping its hull, playing like rhythm drum beats in various paces, various movements with the wakes and infinite universal effects of some butterfly or another. the long white translucent fish bloated on the surface. the foamed water way up the source, the warm water running down my arms as i move the oars through the clarity. how clean am i? how clean is this? the pizza i consume, feeling grit on my hands, in my mitts, from bike grease and potomac. will i die? will worms form. yet the way the soft fleshy folds of the river take me into her, slap against the bow as my arms strain towards the limestone granite white hallowed hollowed monuments washed with evening light and the inert gassy spots, the indigo, the saffron, the blues and yellow of my living.

©1998 chris abraham

Mar 04, 1998 12:00 AM