a poem by Arthur Jackson V
You wouldn’t know it unless you were one of us with an affinity for walking, but, cruising- that
which has been reduced to a myth in San Francisco in recent generations does still exist beyond
an app in Paris. I went – listening to Prince; dancing through the foliage of a forest of a park, a
little treasure of quiet green. He caught me there, stuck staring into a petrified tree twined and
draped in spiderwebs thick enough to be threads on their own. He stopped and watched me
/is this how spiders do it, catch their prey with tricks of dangerous beauty?/
He too was caught, tricks are sometimes shared stones between birds. I turned a droit and he
cocks his head back; a greeting and proposition.
We both become webbed with each other. Il me dit
«/Je gentile avec toi, pas de probleme/» with a soft voice and my hand on his cock. He walked
forwards walking me backwards /face a face/ into the shadows of trees where condom wrappers
littered the ivy like sequin – /can a bit of earth be so queer?/ The way the light projects their
colors on our skin, it must have the ability.
Il deja dit «/gentile avec toi/» kissing the syllables to my forehead and neck just behind the ear. I
remembered Eryka Badu singing about wanting for a man to whisper there. . .
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