when i walk through a roomful of strangers i
occasionally flood with the desire to kiss
them. to walk up to them to place one hand on
the back of her neck his neck one hand on the
curve of his cheek her cheek. to kiss him long
and hard. to kiss her long
and hard. lip to lip. lip to lip. to fuck
his tongue with mine. deep. slow.
fuck her mouth. then breathe deep suck
away her breath -- move to the next.
las vegas was the worst casino after casino after
casino of temptation even after hours of fanatical
loving hours had put ringing in ears hours that put
fingers to trembling...
my jaw to clenching...
a souvenir for the morning after: my mouth unable to
open.
until hot water of the shower loosened it until
the hot coffee until the hot washcloth coaxed the
tortured joint into opening.
these hours made for my eyes to dart from potential
coupling to another to a booking. at a station.
and when daryl whom the spellcheckers want to
make-change as darkly even when daryl asked to make
love on acid i laughed i so laughed and so i went.
for a walk. and i watched. the volcano
and i watched the people. wanted the people.
had he only kissed me hard. had he only said: fuck me.
katrina grace craig / Marek Lugowski
issaquah washington / Chicago, Illinois
he said
nice airmailed details.
nothing screams europe to me like
those flimsy blue envelopes
with the one page letter inside --
cramped with tiny handwriting so
that all the news fit to write
makes it on.
except maybe the smell of diesel, especially
when coupled with a raspberry smell.
but they always made me consult
the german dictionary. the closest
I've been to europe was maryland,
I think,
so diesel exhaust is reserved
exclusively for yosemite in winter and
yellow school buses.
nothing quite so poetic.
katrina grace craig / karl czajkowski
issaquah washington / berkeley california
back to the words or home again, home again, jiggety jig...
brought to you by the letter k, katrina grace craig c © 1997-2002