love is an imperfect thing but it
sings."
-Aldo Ventura,
from an unpublished poem
"'i have
learned
that no one can write fast
enougr"
to write a true
in the mm
FOR THE PROMPTERS
The bed is the bare stage of our lives
No props but memories and skin, no lines
But moans we gasp, oh-gods or my name your name
Melted in our flesh to sobs--our crying original names
Hoarse in the other's ear. or whispered
A password
At the gateways of our thighs--your
Like broken pillars
Bent into the air
© 1975 byMichael Ventura
Prompt us in the
Your publicity-
Shot. that statue's face
Broken every night in bed., your face now faces
Twisting in grinmces you 11
Never see in any nurror--
--when I was weak and little you let me rest there in your head
When I was strong, huge enough to bear all that you were
Your body gave up woman after woman
Each for an instant alive in your flesh till each
Too quick to name
Fled to the air.
AUGUST
A night of moments like ultoes-- I no longer know,
Wit insect bites,
Red welts. I ]
To as simple
Crawling up my arm.
The old woman had weakened so, she couldn't slap
The black flies from her face.
Their bites swelled her brow out over hereyes.
Then you broke your nails in the garden
Tending the patch she left.
Our days were simpler, you didn't mind
The broken nails nor the bottles of polish
Untouched on your dresser--
Mauve, red, shades of pink,
Presentiments of autumn.
Black flies clasped
Belly to back, metallic buzzing
Drilling in the air, or locked together skittering
Across a window.ledge--the best time
To swat them. rd
wipe the squashed flies
• With a rag. This disgusted you.
But I like them,
DETAIL FROM A ROOMSCAPE
I slapped the crotch-hairs off the sheet, felt the stiff
Sperm-stains--dry crumbs powdered
In my fingers. Memories change, but not these, nor how we gasp
Our names, syllables all breath and
Spittle in the other's ear. I watch you, then,
As you grope for tissues,
Your breasts hang loose
When you bend. I shut my eyes, listen
As you wipe me from your crotch, that rustle
Of paper and hair, while my sperm dries,
A thin crust,
On my limpness. In the morning, near the bed,
Will be that crumpled
Crusted tissue, wl itish yellow, the papery ash
With how you suck, I still taste you in my mouth, you don't let onOf my seed, the future
That you smell yourself when you kiss my hands, our desire As dried snot, part of the land--or room-scape merely
Like this bulging, beating August sun. As we get up to ped, the past
As
uric acid, butnow is the odor under our blankets
Spring was a bowl of fruit on our dresser.
Our bodies were ripe, eager
For the teeth of love.
Now summer's an apple half aten.
The meat brown at the edges.
And August is the hugest fly
August never stops eating us
The old woman
Cannot sleep--
While we sweat out our love
Her hands flutter toward her face
And how you curl against me, limp and sweaty
AS my spent sex. How we sleep as one thing bulging
With prick, breasts, a rCUnt pressed to a thigh, two
Asses at odd angles, two knobs of hair,
A thing that fucks itself. That needs to tell itself,
With its two mouths, how it barely remembers its dreams?
That, when it looks, usually sees
Only half of itself in the mirror?
