Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem--Movie (Message 1 of 2)
Date: 13 Apr 92 13:30:32 EST

                        Movie

 

Lights dimming,

fading to Africa

where she is already sitting,

he has moved twice during the previews--

too close, too far,

then behind-to-the-right of a bare-foot teen

with too much hectic energy

blazing for aisles around--

he moves, finally,

behind a beige-attired brightest-thing-in-the-dark

lissome young woman,

firm even in the flickering twilight of the African veldt

of the 1930's,

in khaki shorts like the British boy on the screen,

but she has long sweet legs which melt somewhere near his heart.

 

He is moving around a bit back there

she feels bumps against the back of her chair,

swimming among elephants and the bright light,

like Trieste in James Joyce's right eye,

she senses like an animal,

like the giraffe in front of her

the various movements in the reality behind her,

as the man-beast squirms,

moving his legs first against the outside of her aisle seat,

rubbing against the armrest like a nonchalant lion,

then resting his knee behind where her hair falls

Albert Falls,

over the back of HER chair,

now his as well,

now scraping the chair-back of their chair with his finger

like a command some male animal gives to his female,

WHO DOES HE THINK HE IS!

if she knew,

if she were thinking with words,

but this is AFRICA,

the dark continent,

the unconscious of the white man,

and woman,

she only knows it to be a command,

not from him,

he is only the signal,

but from her own blood,

which she obeys with love,

for herself,

out of some selfishness which flows through her neck,

she feels the radiating energy of his animal spirit

spreading from his hands to her hair.

 

He finds her increasingly beautiful,

ever softer as the boy on the screen grows up,

hard,

in unbearable circumstances,

in barbarity,

in reality,

he moves his index finger from his knee against her chair

to the silky evening of her long hair,

stroking in miniature her whole being,

one strand,

he remembers a paraplegic who has an orgasm

from a woman stroking his chest,

the finger moves by itself,

softly,

across the swaying grasslands,

soft against her hair,

a gentle wind,

feels gratitude and appreciation growing in his heart

for this lovely she-animal in front of him,

blessing both of them by her need,

he moves his finger to her stiff collar,

so different from her hair that the very dissimilitude

rumbles like the dry thunder in the rainless African night,

moves the stiff cloud of collar aside with small motions,

baring a quarter-inch of her neck.

 

OH MY GOD!

She is breathing softly and deep,

the breath of sound sleep,

the mind away up there in darkest Afrika,

with the Afrikaners

reaping the punishment of their sins,

his finger on her softness,

whose sheer sweetness she seems to sense for the first time

ever,

her entire animal located under one fingertip,

and he is so gentle,

and when I move my neck away,

even slightly,

he stops to see my next wish,

but I have none,

wish requires will,

gone now,

out there,

and I am so soft,

so sweet.


 * Origin: Connect America #2, Austin, Tx, 512-459-3351 (1:382/10.0)

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems