Will do comprehensive rewrite soon.
in the hideous pounding wind
beating up 18 wheelers like covered wagons
traveling deliberately and braving elements
in this lonely country starved for kisses.
I walk into the wind toward the store
with its Slim Jims, Hostess Cupcakes, coffee and showers
to take a shower in an antiseptic tiled room
putting my bare feet where thousands of feet
had trod bearing vulnerable nudity
toward the brutal plumbing appropriate
for a concentration camp that scalds or
freezes depending upon its temperament.
The attendant has generously stacked two
fluffy towels -- one for the floor and one
for the body -- and there is the glitter
of two Hershey's Kisses resting atop
the towels with pull tabs fluttering in the wind
blown by a roaring fan.
The pull tabs jut out as fuses for little bombs
made to detonate little chocolate explosions
in a chocolate revolution in the name
of the chocolate god.
Disrobing I am an inmate with privileges.
I lay out a towel up the cold tile floor
and step upon it thinking chocolate thoughts.
Shall I have a kiss? No.
Maybe later, I'll leave the kisses as ornamentation
of my incarceration, I'll just let them kiss me as I turn
a knob and freezing water emerges from the shower head
pointed at me as a barrel of a gun.
I turn further. The water is still cold.
Cold and cold. Perhaps I'll have that Hershey's Kiss now.
Then the water is more than just hot
and I search for a happy medium according to
red and blue arrows pointing in various directions.
There is soap scented with "Spring."
I lather thoroughly, wanting desperately
to feel clean in this haunted place
and its concentration camp aura.
This place where so much cadaverous nudity has
stood, the pot bellies, the sagging breasts the
flesh layered with cellulite awash in
steaming water and chocolate thoughts.
Oh yes, I was kissed! Euphoria!
Suddenly I'm dancing my version of the Rhumba,
then it's the tribal dance of the Cherokee Nation,
then I'm in social dance class in the 6th grade.
One-two, cha-cha-cha, three four, cha-cha-cha.
One-two, cha-cha-cha, three four, cha-cha-cha.
I lather into the whiteness of the abominable snowman.
Lather, lather, scrub, scrub to get
the aromatic skin of a new born babe.
Enough! It's over. I feel clean.
I step on the precious towel and lift
the body towel and lo and behold!
Five more Hershey's Kisses fall out
upon the counter top like live hand grenades
ready for action.
Shall I pull a tab? No.
I dress, shave, brush my teeth, comb my hair.
The Hershey's Kisses glitter -- an arsenal of chocolate.
Shall I pull a tab? No I won't.
Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 789 times
Editors' choice
Written on 2010-06-09 at 01:53
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
Kissed
Stopped at a truck stop on the Kansas plainsin the hideous pounding wind
beating up 18 wheelers like covered wagons
traveling deliberately and braving elements
in this lonely country starved for kisses.
I walk into the wind toward the store
with its Slim Jims, Hostess Cupcakes, coffee and showers
to take a shower in an antiseptic tiled room
putting my bare feet where thousands of feet
had trod bearing vulnerable nudity
toward the brutal plumbing appropriate
for a concentration camp that scalds or
freezes depending upon its temperament.
The attendant has generously stacked two
fluffy towels -- one for the floor and one
for the body -- and there is the glitter
of two Hershey's Kisses resting atop
the towels with pull tabs fluttering in the wind
blown by a roaring fan.
The pull tabs jut out as fuses for little bombs
made to detonate little chocolate explosions
in a chocolate revolution in the name
of the chocolate god.
Disrobing I am an inmate with privileges.
I lay out a towel up the cold tile floor
and step upon it thinking chocolate thoughts.
Shall I have a kiss? No.
Maybe later, I'll leave the kisses as ornamentation
of my incarceration, I'll just let them kiss me as I turn
a knob and freezing water emerges from the shower head
pointed at me as a barrel of a gun.
I turn further. The water is still cold.
Cold and cold. Perhaps I'll have that Hershey's Kiss now.
Then the water is more than just hot
and I search for a happy medium according to
red and blue arrows pointing in various directions.
There is soap scented with "Spring."
I lather thoroughly, wanting desperately
to feel clean in this haunted place
and its concentration camp aura.
This place where so much cadaverous nudity has
stood, the pot bellies, the sagging breasts the
flesh layered with cellulite awash in
steaming water and chocolate thoughts.
Oh yes, I was kissed! Euphoria!
Suddenly I'm dancing my version of the Rhumba,
then it's the tribal dance of the Cherokee Nation,
then I'm in social dance class in the 6th grade.
One-two, cha-cha-cha, three four, cha-cha-cha.
One-two, cha-cha-cha, three four, cha-cha-cha.
I lather into the whiteness of the abominable snowman.
Lather, lather, scrub, scrub to get
the aromatic skin of a new born babe.
Enough! It's over. I feel clean.
I step on the precious towel and lift
the body towel and lo and behold!
Five more Hershey's Kisses fall out
upon the counter top like live hand grenades
ready for action.
Shall I pull a tab? No.
I dress, shave, brush my teeth, comb my hair.
The Hershey's Kisses glitter -- an arsenal of chocolate.
Shall I pull a tab? No I won't.
Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 789 times
Editors' choiceWritten on 2010-06-09 at 01:53
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
BlueyedSoul |
|
Gretchen Hunter |
|
Gretchen Hunter |
|
Editorial Team |
|
Rob Graber |
| Texts |
 by Peter J. Kautsky Latest textsMichelleMalbec This is March Avocado Acronymic Apoplexia |
Increase font
Decrease