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When
we fuck, the musky in Silence
Lake will rise to the hook. A Hopi grandmother
will light a smudge of sage in the rosé
sunrise, and a young man returning
to the reservation with his father’s ashes
in a Folgers can will finally get his truck
started. That’s right, baby. Good girl,
he’ll say, stroking the dashboard.
Our refrigerators
will synchronize their hums.
Vibrational sympathy will be established
between my tempeh and your crisper
full of Rolling Rock. A drunken gourmet
in Houston will add a pinch of habanero
to her curried mock duck. Woks
will sizzle everywhere. In my dream,
it’s like a Bruce Lee movie—fucking
without fucking, zen and the art of it. We jack
the auction of the mind and hock the antiques,
steal a souped-up jalopy and head
for the rave at the end of the world.
The DJ spills gin on the decks and it only improves
the mix. Your geology textbooks lie spread-
eagle on the beach where kids in phat pants
dance on cardboard squares to apocryphal
samples. A pantheon of hardcore and acid
converge above the thump of dub bass,
sequences of Tibetan bells, Orisha chants.
The sun beats early guava
on the redwoods of Big Sur. It doesn’t matter
that the speakers are broken.
Poem copyright © Jason Eggink
2002. All rights reserved. |
