BY REQUEST: "CANNIBALS" & "THE WHALE"

CANNIBALS

Beyond the closed door of a Tokyo club,

her uniform skirt is a sober school length.

Not that it matters to the businessman,

since her blouse is on the floor.

Her uniform skirt is a sober school length

and his pants are puddled on his ankles

next to her blouse on the floor.

He would never dare to touch her

with his pants tamped down like the lid

of a kettle – he will keep her chaste.

She will take the yen without touching him

and use them to buy a sweet pink watch.

Her youth is boiling under her, a kettle.

And somewhere a trendy New York designer

is winding up her sweet pink watch.

Her parents support her, and she fights it.

Somewhere in New York, a man is asking

the Times to run an ad: “Straight male seeks Bush

supporter for fair, physical fight --

I would like to beat the shit out of you.”

Some young Republican will read the ad

somewhere in New York, and spit his coffee

across the cafe, his nerves all beat to shit

but ready and willing to respond.

Somewhere on the Internet, a newsgroup

posting will beg for “a boy between 18

and 25 to butcher” -- and the saddest thing

is that somewhere, someone will respond

and he will not be the first boy between 18

and 25. A 41 year old murderer will orgasm

while some poor bastard nods 'yes'

in the moment before the hatchet descends.

A Japanese businessman is orgasming

over the skirt of an educated, middle-class girl.

This is the moment, the hatchet descending --

we are eating each other alive.

Her uniform skirt is dripping and sticky

not that it matters to the businessman.

We are eating each other alive

beyond the closed doors of a Tokyo club.

================================

THE WHALE

It shocked me, when I was young, to learn

that the whale was once a land-bound body

and that Texas had once been the smooth, dark

mysterious sand of the primordial sea – the thought!

The blue and white jetliner of flesh, the thin,

long, vestigial fingers of its wings riding breaking

waves of desert as it dragged itself forward, breaking

tooth and nail on its own awful weight ... I learned,

but it was hard not to nap in the heat. I wore thin

cotton dresses and comforted my puppy's trembling body

as thunder struck the willow on the lawn. I thought

the South was a no-shadow place; all light or all dark.

When the transfer came, my father babbled on Dark

Matter and other matters of physics, instead of breaking

the news. Gently, gently, he eased the idea, the thought

of Saudi Arabia into our heads, while I learned

the basics of black holes, too distracted to ask anybody

what continent Arabia was on. Dad's hair went stubble-thin

with the effort of convincing Mom, who was then quite thin,

and beautiful, and in love with Home; I was in the dark

until at last we climbed in a plane, catapulted across the body

of Neptune, glittering, blue – I knew, tectonic plates broke

and adjusted as a god stretched. Dad adjusted my safety belt -- I learned

that we weren't coming back in his well-timed afterthought

just after takeoff. The privilege of childhood is thoughtlessness.

I had a swat for every mosquito-doubt; a plastic window, thin,

between myself and Poseidon. I stepped into Customs, and learned

to be afraid. In Texas, I was tan. Here I was pale against a dark

set of ill-set jaws, the jaws of boxers whose faces had been broken

many times. I stuck out like an octopus, a tinsel-tree, a body

in motion. I contracted like a jellyfish, while Dad used body

language to hail a taxi ... and like a miracle, it came – I thought

I might faint with relief – I climbed in, and he smiled, and I broke

down and cried. My mother let me cling, and from thin

air, I pulled a thread of hope. It was hot, in Arabia; even in the dark

it was hot. I couldn't sleep, and it was hard. But I learned.

Yes -- It shocked me, when I was young, to learn

that the earth itself is thin, brittle thing. The thought!

That I would become what is myself, amidst its breaking.

[DISCLAIMER FOR THE WHALE: I took some artistic license with this one. Not all writing is biographic, although most of mine is. Thanks, over and out.]