Andrew Demcak is currently working on his second Master's
Degree, an MLIS, at U. C. Berkeley. When he is not hard at
work driving the Bookmobile for Oakland Public Library, he can
be found attending "GuyWriters" poetry readings at Anthony's
house in San Francisco, or eating Tibetan momos with his
partner, Peter. Viva Wallace Stevens!
The hand has come to cut; leaving branches
like gutted fish in their puddles of blood
because the wine-colored room is boring.
These flowers in milky constellations
will sour into assorted goblets.
Fusty heads of Chinese chrysanthemums
will bow out. The garden undone by way
of blossoms, its suicide lingering.
These petals fold up like nervous fingers.
Salt-trace of your cock head, blue-red, in my
belly. Parched walls of hips, I arrive
like Osiris, dividing up my parts.
This adultery lingers like a cat
with its infinite womb. The circle of
old scratches and teeth marks. Fornications
tracked like mileage. Your smile assumes
its meat-hook, its polished brightness. You
depart. One last glimpse: your navel, that moon.
Ascend the December twig of my arm,
that souvenir relaxed in crisp air.
It's not easy staying skyward, rubbing
past my tree shoulders, when my nippled buds
respond to quick thumbs. Mica glittering
in the lengths of my thighs, the million year
creep of basalt. A lucent fluid flows
from cockstems, a pleasure pinched from stars.
No small bald patch, no unbothered inch.
My page vacant. No fountain leaps blindly,
pressured into the world. No mum hand
nursing a forehead. I stand here in white
Nikes under blank-eyed attentions:
marble gods in the public rotunda.
Apollo's not dead- uninspired.
Pillars sink back into their porticoes.
Father of the moon stays deaf-eared to
slightest footfall of the statue maker.
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