Two poems by Mike Walker
picking me for the introduction,
picking me from the sugary trillions;
rushing over the paths with my whole
in adjusted tow and deserting the rest
for my corporeal real ready to respond.
who is zoned as the pleasure now?
who is planned as the accord within?
you're not fully able without me, boy,
you're treble sans severe orchestration.
when I'm dispatched, unlatched, you're
dropping from your symmetry, geometry,
lost like an erasing of the marks, sparks;
you: not to wield more than latent sexuality,
yes, I'll admit your prowess in penetration.
we climbed our respective mountains and
met in the simmering dawn, drawn, done.
from you I sense I providentially inherited all
things American, generic/special, ecstatic
alive in their conversation, elation; perhaps
you derived from me the powers of negation,
preservation, hesitation, and now you could
respond in arms, in charms, in full implication.
fly eagle, spread-eagle, perfect in the early
thoughts that make an ill way seem okay;
convinced me that all we need is love, you
enamored my logical, prodigal, replete in
your spirals, your trials, I was ready to stay
awhile with you, oh, the final pairing
imagined for the dawn-break, the wake,
you could with me suffered it out, yes,
all intact and in emergency I would have
held you as the damaged, accused, used.
He is too much the body to be compact
yet the legs they fold up under him then
stretch out and how they are so gangling . . .
could only a boy be?
when tired and --by chance-- thoughts are followed with filtered sideways looks into the doorways; when he knows the familiar sounds from memory, collective memory, shared seasons and scents befriended by all those names that came before me
he settles down into the orange lapse of fettered felt, this, a couch wide as a hearse and diagonal to the telly while isometric like the plans for a new river dam or the expansion of the four-lane highway this schematic so strange now
in the dark, where we only have lines to delineate the protection offered by this room so much so the lack of sleep he would gladly run along a wall only to pass the gate unlatched and hobble over the rough rock of old bricks; in no shame the feelings being transmitted from flesh to inanimate object but only if my own side felt the clamor of the muscles tense to the stress of gravity and the insanity of brevity in his hurry there is running but seldom movement as he's plunged down for the count he's dead out for the notice, he's now gone
I can't see beyond his shorts retreated towards his thighs and clustered like blown discarded grocery bags after the central-Florida storm but what asks more of the eye than the face that just lets down all the primary defenses to being submerged in brief if not discreet possession, why, deep in my heart I know I owe always this one boy a terrible debt and the legions of all the times we have kissed don't mitigate the migration of his toughness yet still no other, no other, could carry my head up past the comments on the stairs and into the rodeo of the tornado-harvested bedroom at the east end of this landing, laughing, moving empowered like a plane retro-jetted back into the hanger as if by stop-motion photography he gave me the grace of a small frame of cyan-tinged film for each glimpse of his legs and his forehead to be held within my gust of exhaustion and cessation of breath by the forced fierceness
"what is yours", he promised, "is mine" and so forth, dictums et seq., in his largess he extends explosive shreds like phased sounds from an electric guitar played with dynamism, nerve, verve, calmness in the ripping down of words untoward he flooded out every reserve of hesitation in my first-form head to this bed with the eyes rolling down like clams closing their shells he extends once more the limbs of non-fragile hope and sturdy study in wellness given to consumption by passion . . . of insolence . . . of agitated nothing.