A Beethoven Sonata

There is an existential intersection between Marxist (or at least Engel's and Trotsky's) aspiration and post-colonial entitlement which does not countermand congruent routes of cognizant and sentient dimensions of an ethereal materialism but rather function as the zygote of their intrinsic convergence.

The tragedy is that I know what this means.

And it's even true at three a.m.

after a good bottle of chianti

swilled with pork roast and baked apples

and I'm wedged between Kate's legs

adjusting the rhythm of the me

that I'm putting inside her

and the me I think I'll take away.

Dinner-talk and a wafer of after-dinner acrimony

are crumbled on new black percale, and though

I feel their grit beneath her arms and ass,

I speak only of the silk woven by her cunt's

reaching for my breast and mouth and hand.

And I wish,

I wish,

And I wish,

I wish she would open her eyes

As I peel open her mouth with my thumb

and tug on her tongue with my lips,

her tongue that tells me even less than the vague

surrender in her sigh.

There are books here.

Her books.

Their shadows lasso the walls

around us in street and candle light.

Propping up other things of insufficient leg.

Priceless first editions of a best-seller

now prostheses that slyly re-member

the plastic limbs of the legless man

who sold her this place and

last made love in this room.

But her eyes stay closed because

her there is there

and mine isn't,

and since neither of us

is here,

we've allowed room for the sun

to set upon the shaky dawn.

And I put my ear into the mattress

to hear the sounds of every sun's setting and dawning

because I wish to hear as well as see

their pink and amber fingers drip in

purple over the ceiling shadows

and inhale the vapor and evaporation of

those hands I cannot reach.

And I wish, I wish

And I wish

I wish these clamoring and hungry whispers

could use my voice to speak.

Yet somehow this particular and symphonic impotence

Draws Kate's heel into my back.

It's an adagio movement and bucks its own harmonics.

So, when she lathers my breasts with incessant sterling hair

and tightens her thighs on my waist, I suckle her release

in my throat and swallow.

And swallow.

And swallow her spill of

"I love yous."

Before the next-day's light

bleaches out their visit.

And of all the things she might have done,

Instead

she opens her eyes,

And she smiles.

Neither latter nor present-day intermittent sentiment affords sufficient therapy to eradicate indoctrinated predispositions that prohibit concurrently extended, concordant or bonafide exchange between individuals with realities predicated on disparate notions of self-purpose and identity determined by cultural origins.

The tragedy is that I know what this means.