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FOXFIRE
AND PHOSPHORESCENCE
Hard whiskey
in the hand
made him seem like a rancher
at the wrong watering hole;
no-bullshit butchness,
masculinity without artificial affectations;
nothing to impress
the fashion queen or the metrosexual.
His boots were scuffed,
scratched so deep
saddle soap would scream at the prospect
of lathering in their leathery redemption.
Washed-out jeans
worn to a white, faded sheen
on wallet hip and crotch,
fit his frame like tight denims
on Michelangelo's David.
Rolled-up sleeves clung to well-worked arms;
white shirttails in unbuttoned,
fly-loose freedom,
hanging in a natural nonchalance;
a rippling six-pack
peaking out between his curtains.
Hirsute, chest sparkling the color of moon;
short, silver beard
betraying his secret stash of years
slowly accumulated at a sauntering speed,
safely out of the fast lane.
Refusing to grow old, even gracefully,
Mr. Handsome had merely matured:
aged beef, USDA Choice,
hot Daddy on the hoof.
For friends of Dorothy,
he was a moveable feast;
gay boys of summer secretly wondering
which one would be tasting
fresh meat at closing time.
From across the bar, his wandering eyes
explored up and down,
stripping me to my bare essentials;
sight touching skin with tingles.
Something suspiciously incendiary drew me,
my moth to his flame, smoldering
while I craved the heat, the burn,
the body-fever;
embers of ecstasy to singe my wings.
Whetting dormant, wet-dream desires,
he proposed his place
for one-on-one, intensive care,
firing up forbidden father fantasies
on my mental projection screen.
We dared to spark the night;
tinder-dry flesh on fire
where deep sleep stillness amplified
our crackling, thundered
every verbal incoherence,
every silence-fractured, tactile
exploration into intimacy.
Dark of the morning
wound its blind blanket
around our naked groping
as we read one another wordlessly;
finger-felt revelations in body-braille.
Pleasure-partnered, our perceptions altered;
steamy sex to stretch the senses
as he came, passing through me,
spreading star-seed
into the far reaches of my inner space.
Foxfire and phosphorescence
played upon his private parts,
ghost wisps writhing sinuous, serpentine,
pewter-poured in lunar streams;
movement and muscle glowing
with every undulation.
Behind his eyes twin secrets shined:
the Unknown and the Undiscovered
beckoning, tugging me
beneath his surface.
My Marlboro Man,
from bar cruise to bed sheets,
no mere trick to turn;
an earth god incognito,
immaterial daemon entranced
by the sensual denseness of desire;
divine satyriasis
masked in mortal disguise...
Hands
on my head;
hammering ache of alcohol
throbbing
its sadistic departure
as remnants of a dream remain
embedded in morning consciousness.
Strangers always passing through
on the way to somewhere...
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