Christmas 1979

In the slow

explosion

of morning,

by the restaurant's volcanic light,

I find

in a box

of meteor rocks

an alien-

transvestite.

She is wearing

a mask

she has carefully carved

out of the burning flesh of martyred lust,

and I find myself

wanting this

strange little bird

to be dancing on her knees to my

animal thrust.

But this woman can't get love,

because she got no womb

to catch it in,

and this lady can't be courted

because she aint no lady in the living end.

But I swim in the strangest state

of longing

as she sits pouting

over there,

glaring defiantly

at the clientele

until she stumbles upon my stare.

The waitress

lights up

her cigarette,

and she takes a long sensual drag,

while along with the smoke

through those red, flaming lips I feel my breath is slowly taken away.

But this woman can't get love

because she got no womb

to catch it in,

and this lady can't be courted because she aint no lady,

and in the end

she's like some flightless bird

in a paragrine falcon's dress.

She's exquisite

food

for my fantasies

but my fingers need smoother slopes

to caress.