time in multanomah park

[Steve]

is that all you have to offer me?
cold fists clenched around my penis,
its wrinkles lost in the folds of your palm-
your vaginamouth wrapped around me,
and did that include the yeast foam
that collected at its edges?-
saliva caking in its curves as you stare into my eyes,
as a storm glares onto terracotta pots
before it hurls them against the garden wall,
breaking it into pieces as obscure and dangerous
as fragment memory.

so you saw me with my pack
walking a cross the soccer field to the far end
beneath the trees and thought you saw confidence,
a hot piece of ass to wriggle your index in
like a warm cup of coffee-
ope` my sleeping bag and begin reading Kafka
with the pines hanging lazily above me.

philosophical belching at the sun
about metaphysics and the world
has yet to save anyone.

is that all you could offer me?
sunsets, beer and cigarettes,
sentences in Russian or German-
your moustache scrubbing the dirt from my face
as you probed my wound of a mouth with
your swabbing swollen tongue-
romantic novels you wrote are but
testaments of your queerdom and lack of wisdom,
and i began to stop believing you were my Ginsberg.
i removed your father old hand from my intestines
and wrapped it in cellophane and gauze;
powdered your face and straightened your shirt;
ran my fingers over your eyes as though
i was shedding skin to mend your eyelids
and hide those glassy forgettable eyes:

everything is forgettable

i prepared you for the next evening
when i wouldn't be there, behind the pines.
is that all you had to offer me?
bagged salad, which i never did eat.
you showed me i was unique,
desirable, i showed you
i'm not.