I wrote this on May 21st, 2012. It was and has remained my favorite of what I have put on paper.

prometheus unbound

 

“Turn your head and cough.

          Everything seems fine.

                   May I make a suggestion?

                             Maybe you never were a poet?”

         

a soft guitar sits on her jeans covered lap

strings fondled by fingers

topless except for a black bra held in place by black straps

my usually wandering eyes linger

 

two nights ago we encountered

and she’s still here

but since most of our conversations have been pillow talk

i haven’t asked her to clear

 

but now she’s talking about dreams

words that dance in her mind

that somehow the time she’ll redeem

if all is built as designed

 

how do i tell her that i’m not prometheus

that beyond the warm grip of her cunt

i have no expectation of ecstasy

nor am i the source of the distribution of dreams

 

i am what curdles the cream

though for two days i have been inspired by her beauty

motivated to touch, to know, to feel

is this the beginnings of love?

 

a pleasure so pleasurable

that one will rush in and concede

that her definition of what life should be

is an acceptable definition

 

acts of repentance without contrition

but still i will roll the stone from the tomb of my heart

play the part

of the partner who shares her dreams

 

so i can continue to have what at this moment is everything i want

i know actors don’t do their own stunts

but why not embrace a definition of happiness

since i truly don’t have one of my own

 

beyond the image of exquisite breasts encased in a black bra

two nights ago i drew the shortest straw

and though i don’t believe in the divine

she has somehow become mine

 

and wants to tell me the dance of her dreams

to the orchestra of her fingers on strings

playing a melody as unscripted as i believe life to be

so i will help her plan, work and scheme

 

in pursuance of this belief in the meaning of dreams

while i live in the moment of the chair graced by her jean clad form

and the tempest she causes to rage and to storm

just by a beauty she did nothing to possess

 

unless there was purpose in her bra covered breasts

but i know better than to try and outsmart a woman

plato only had words and thoughts and ideas

she is a thief who knows how to steal

 

it doesn’t matter what she says

by just sitting there nations she will conquer

i am an addict without a sponsor

saying, “yes” to something she has just said

 

and now she is risen and come back to bed

 

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