In my ear she always whispered about to come—
‘I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations’
but you had already said it, bastard
from the Rhone to Seville H&B Soup Kitchen,
Avenue A and on all bellies and pricks in the East Village.
She always whispered it coming and hot---
‘I have, I have, I have… …’
her orchid clit opening I fingered it like Braille
the New York Public Library up and down the elevator—
lingered on it in a flat in SoHo after cold coffee
with no sugar
till we woke the headboard with alleluias
Praise Jesus in the river.
I liked this Texas two-stepper a funny little girl
with little fingers and big toes—
(no big deal really for this backward Samoan)
So She’d start this sumptin’ cat— ‘I have, I have,
I have,’ and I’d say back on the floor with only socks on—
‘let’s you and me get lost in the breath of trees,
summer sidewalk cracks, screaming subways...
But then one day this little lady thinks she is really a fine lady
only wearing my time just along or this ride
cause she says through an unfiltered cig and a howl—
‘I’m sorry I belong to America and don’t care about your shit poetry.’