Rubber, Wax, Vinyl, or Plastic

Ohio is equidistant from the religious saviour
I've become and the promise of America's decrepit
class. The "critique of political economy" dangles
from the arch of my hot-pants tongue. Thin-lipped,
we're left wanting what
to remove the pork-bellied devil from our gangster roster,
send him diagonally into the belching light
of countless eyes peering down screens
from the termite comforts of their own hot tubs, but.
Fairly, she looks very different there with all of that hair
across her nose. For her unbleached iris, I part the seas
and am part sea that rushes away at first glance,
then second, on elbows and knees until you
too are almost as frightened
as my swift elsewhere, where it's a sports day
in the midst of a second-wave miracle on
economics in cocked hat, for just
three easy payments plus postage.
Without a sex-o-nista season, the pizza is burning
the other room down, and these cracks aren't as pungent
as the crack the great state of Ohio deserves when you
rock n' fall over; so grab your poles, go by the lake,
and eat up to embrace whatever organ makes you
gyrate those hips, lace those long legs up
to our waists and turn out a turntable on this party face,
sans with or without us, our great groaning lusts at 78, and
a marked increase in the moon's pull by the top of the stairs.

Metal Gun and Pacifier: A Life Reading

Apart, away — these are the sighs by which someone
takes her longest stride, rids herself of hair,
presence, all the amenities and accoutrements of turning pages,
her sandwich and tea, the gut that demands, the jolts that request
a voice in reply, and omit every other undone plan
throughout the night of nighttime's notebooks.
Prague, according to the Times, is a top place to go right now —
not Manila, Latvia, Tehran, Warsaw, not Amsterdam,
Bangkok, Addis Ababa, nor Walt Disney. But the looks
in European towns, I've found are more open and studied
as if to draw a person in for one long breath, hold her hard,
study dark her indentations, and return you to yourself mid-step,
a little more known than hello. The constant flow of wine
and espresso enables the effort to make surface yield
something not entirely surface. For instance, when my mouth
can touch your mouth's sounds and the antique attributes
of tragedy taste metallic, then shatter our future decisions as one.
Likewise, Jesus was the first perfect insemination, and you are the sex
of my virgin, pre-fondle. What I've found is the hardest part
is how much a body must move about in the world,
or atrophy at home. Then we go along the road with people
tilting forward, without stairs even, that catch me thinking aloud,
"There is no Salamun here." What is a sad place but the dirt
scene of the unseen? What is the middle of an egg but gestures
tied behind the back, ones that ape the cock of a head,
the blur of eyes peering through Our Lady of Sorrows
as if dancing on a parquet floor were the equal of freedom, as if
listening to Mahler meant anything at all, flying back to America
or the impossibility of one person beside another in flight, indifferent,
high and aloof, this man's wife peeking over her book
at my stone-bare face, hair dyed, a twinkling in her breasts
despite being married down, despite the moves I make
with my coffee and eyesight, despite the rings I mold
from a whistle's weight. No matter how hard I hold it, the segues
keep coming—life's little hollows, harbors I rub my fingers against,
birthing new turbulence to erase what never comes or is imminent.
In remembrance, the golden fleece shines through
the little window of our co-pilot's eye until we get seated
on water that tastes of latte milk and sunshine on rewind.

Ekleksographia #2

July, 2009


Amy King

Amy King is the author of I'm the Man Who Loves You and Antidotes for an Alibi, and forthcoming, Slaves to Do These Things (Blazevox Books). For information on the reading series Amy co-curates, please visit The Stain of Poetry: A Reading Series or visit her at