"
Newspaper Archive of
The Texas Sun
Buda, TX
Lyft
December 11, 1975     The Texas Sun
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December 11, 1975
 

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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 -Aldo Ventura, from an unpublished poem "'i have learned that no one can write fast enougr" to write a true in the mm FOR THE PROMPTERS The bed is the bare stage of our lives No props but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?