(BORED AT A DINNER PARTY)

If you hold your breath the forest won’t move.

Put it out
Between two calloused wet fingers,
Heavy as snow, dry as gold
Lay down on the ground, flame
Lay down on the bed and roll onto your blue stomach,
Ass in the air, yellow tail up.
Mouth stuffed with rosemary flowers and teeth the color of eyes.
Yes, that would taste hot and good.

You drum your fingers on the edge of the wine glass, but

The minutes sway like a branch without a window to tap against,
Directionless conversation is an agony.
Nothing to hunt.
No 2, 3, 4, 5 limping away into the shadows,
Noses bleeding,
Rigid spear stuck in the hard muscle of a shoulder.

So,
Fingers under the table,
You grope for the sea like a landlocked mountain.
Stuck in your place
With those hungry wolves in your pockets
You cross knees and thighs and islands,
And something there in the headlights, was it a deer?
Yes, a deer there on the ground,
Tongue to the side and

Dry as a cloud behind a tree.
Someone else’s failed aim

But now, with triumph, the juice is all yours,
Sizzling and bubbling between two calloused wet fingers,
Mind roaming into pleasure’s wide open bedroom
Bed on fire,
You pet the moon’s wild boar tooth and
The grease soaks into the blisters and
The queen of the brioche is ripped from her overly sweet flesh, and
The fingers approach your mouth,
Yellow tail swishes the gold dirt up into the air and
A river flows out from under your tongue, and-
Hey archer, woah there, you better adopt a more cordial manner,
Sit straighter in your chair.
It is at midnight when the laurels make their black sauce,
Not now,
Bubbling aromas in 5, 4, 3, 2,

Hey there-
Not now.
Midnight, I said, when the branches grow their antlers
Tapping against the window with their restless talk,
Drumming, drumming their fingers outside against,
Abutting against.
Savorily and sluttily- against.
How much longer can it be now?
Till the hour of taunting and teasing,
Of shooting anything that moves
Or breathes, but

Whining and wincing,
Here you are,
Dressed appropriately for this fine outing,
Chuckling and rolling your eyes in a circle, around and around,
Tied up by a number that doesn’t ever come over
To suck on your ear.
That rigid 1
Straight as your own calloused finger under the table,
How you wish she were rounder like the number 8
Fleshy like a dare, fleshy like a deer, wet brioche to tear,

You become really worked up.

Yes, in your dreams, at your feet,
Flat as a tree in front of the clouds,
An 8 wriggling and writhing in pain,
The mind stalks, it creeps,
8, 8,
How it dances as it dies
Naked and bleeding from the shoulder.

But wait, I told you already,
Wait to leave this candlelit dinner,
This meal of whatever the hell is going on,
Was it agriculture, city planning, politics?
Tedious counting, 4, 3, 3, 4,
Hold your breath, make the forest stand still.
Drink in the forked clinks and use the napkins to sop up saliva.
Say something useful, “Yes, yes of course I too agree”,
Success, the comment was a hit.
But unfortunately it missed
The only target you were aiming for-
Erect as the tail of a deer

Out the door, that 1 screeches like a wild boar
Covered in thyme as the time ticks and ticks.
Little tail ticking forth and back and forth and-

Sharp as an arrow, archer, you do have a point,
Tediously, one comment deserves another,
One minute forward is always a minute

-back.

Yes, you are right, going on like that,
The new year might never appear.
Here among the candles, strong as headlights,
The moon stops dead in her tracks.
The palms of your hands sweat and cry,
Gushing and urging you to just
Put it out.

Put it out
With the grease licked off your fingers, wet
Is how you make the night
Come, closer to that yellow flag of desire,
Hands around the flame’s shaft,
It’s gold is heavy and dry as snow
As it prances along the plates and dishes,
Flaunting its derriere on the rim of the wine glass.
The darkness is now if you pull it out,
The dark howl in your pockets
A wick that’s never been lit,
In the black sauce that bubbles and sizzles between
Calloused fingers, yes archer, extinguish.
Or, better yet-

Unleash the hounds of held breath, and
Jump the candle altogether,
Tear that sweet flame wide open with the push of a moist blow.

If you breathe
The fire moves faster,
Animals flee, bouncing among the trees that sway, cooking,
Dancing in the glow of wild-eyed rabbits, fur in an upward twirl.
So,
Throw it down on a carpet of leaves,
Lay it down, dirt like silk under both your stomachs,
Mouths full of flowers,
Napkins on fire,
Forest in a blaze of shirt sleeves and curtains and a stampede
Of panicked wings beating and teeth the color of eyes snorting
Snorting and burning.

1 can burn in hell. The time is now if you make it.

Lay it all down on the ground, flame
Lay it all down on the bed and roll onto your blue stomach,
Ass in the air, tail up.
Both of you now, all,
With your ears to the ground listening for the sea
That hot thump of fire under the table,
Dry as a wave behind the wet laurels
Drumming against you, savorily and sluttily, and,

And,
And, finally,

Stuffed with kindling, two apples like the number 8 to lock the jaw
Up,
Nostrils round like a couple of zeros, breathing and heaving and
Antlers locked.
Blood dripping over your chin like wax,
On fire and feasting-
Yes, that would be good.