Feta and Tofu
Should I plan
on living near you or plan
around living near you or plan
despite living near you or plan
by living near you?
If
if if
if if if
if if if if
if if if if if I could write you a text that wouldn't poison itself with selfcategorization like a mobius scorpion, then I would flow through it towards you pseunami tsudopod engulfing infiltrating loving you and through you and around you and over you and under you. If text weren't art weren't history weren't a battle between victors and omissions who were erased in two thousand quiet conflicts in the smoke of which interpretations were erected and taught to say “we were here all along, we were here all along...”, if I wasn't stumbling through a ruined slum of precedents, then I could function within a sentence without situating myself on a critic's grid or a spectrum or circle or on one side of a twosided object and I would lick all your skin off with the curve of my period. If the play of the letters didn't refer to two thousand recognizable patterns and the play of words didn't suggest two thousand preexisting tangents, if it all wasn't a ready-made vocabulary, paintbox, toybox, toolbox, if it was strawberries and butterflies and I was the sun, then my commas would be tangled in your hair while I gently chewed your ligaments. If I was memorizing every circular inch of your skin with a lip or fingernail, if I was tasting you everywhere, if we took turns being inside one another, if I could touch the shufflethump of your heart with this trembling erection, then this couldn't be a letter story poem play essay manifesto shoppinglist will and testament. If any of this was real before or after language, if only language rose in the east and set in the west, if only I wasn't writing this, if it was me and you was you and I touched your nose and whispered a rainbow of flavors and vitamins and basted your membranes with my nutritional saliva until your skin rose orange like warm cinnamon, if you had orgasms in every organ at once and burst into flames and continued living happily on fire, then I would come banana milkshakes and drool olive oil and sweat lime and coat you with my secretions until you were warm and slippery then wrap myself all the way around you until you couldn't see out and could hear nothing but my purring and then retract and curl up between your thighs wrapping my tail in a spiral all the way down your leg and flex and relax and flex and relax while I tickled your foot with my dry stinger then exhale my left lung into your vagina and blow until the tickling of two thousand microscopic alveolar sacs rendered your cranium a tangled roadmap of warm lakes and beaches then straddle your stomach and regurgitate pure chocolate into your mouth until I was panting damp and exhausted with my thumb in your bellybutton caressing the curve of your appendix and my forefinger in your ear touching your most pleasant memories. Even if I could tell time and the phase of the moon, indicate the temperature and humidity, even if I could pick up police radios, even if I approached the theoretical limit of information transmission, even if I spoke two thousand languages, even if I could encrypt a library in one twothousandth of a second, then I would still rather have a continuous orgasm until I was all gone and the carpet was soaked.
There could have been two thousand pronouns for you. When we see us we will link tongues and teach each other to touch so slowly the days will flicker past the window.