Kiss, Kiss, Kiss

There are times I sit and wonder when the poems will run out. Will I always be able to squeeze a poem out of my head, I ask myself. I worry and fret over that question and then something happens and, oops, out pops a poem; not always a good one, mind you. Now, this preamble is all leading up to the experience that gave me that reminder that the creative process is infinite.

Recently, a dance company was in town to perform the annual “Thriller” show (a Michael Jackson tribute) at the Egyptian Theatre. Of course, they were from places like L.A. and New York, and of course most of the male dancers were gay; I’m okay with that. I crossed paths with one of these dancers, twice. He had an enchanting smile. His name was Christian. We didn’tkiss-1 go beyond some casual small talk, unfortunately, because I feel like there could have been some amazing moments with him. That is why, when we crossed paths for the last time,  I thought of a kiss. A lot can be said with a kiss. It’s body language after all. It’s the execution of intimate feelings. So I pictured kissing him, and that moment spawned this poem:


What Happens Next (To Christian)

This was still new
We were still new
Sitting in near-darkness
Our eyes anchored
One to another
He reeled in my lust
With his smile
And Asked
What happens next?
His eyes closed
His lips poisedkiss-3
For my reply
Where we go next
Would depend
On this kiss
A kiss softly applied
     closed lips
     a second’s lifetime
Would make us
A penetrative kiss
     the kind that sounds
     like ripples of water
     lapping at the shore
Would mean nothing more
Than an affair
Ending in
     “Have a good night”
But if there is a pause
at first contact
     If I breath him in
     Taste his hunger
We could be lovers
     Memorizing each other
     Without discretion
     Colored in tones
     Of passion


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