by Bill Noble
(03/21/07)
10 -- 18
More of a cycle of poems written, one each day, for my beloved. No.10 is about being the subject of a magical photoshoot by the renowned David Steinberg in a class he taught at the Center for Sex & Culture in San Francisco. For 11, you won't find "synecdochivity" in the dictionary, but you will find "synecdoche." And yes, the The National Association of Rudimental Drummers actually exists.
10.
The Excellent Adventure
Four hundred and thirty-five pictures of us making love,
scattered all over the bed
and we're trying to choose the juiciest ones,
but alas, we keep getting dreadfully distracted,
remembering the shoot, the mattress
in the middle of the gawking, wide-eyed erotic photo class
the hot studio lights, the photographer leaping
demonically over us, crouching, crashing into lightstands,
until, covered with sticky pictures,
we come -- and my eye catches the perfect picture,
your face, your glowing slack-lipped stunned good-fuck face,
matching the face here in our bed
perfectly.
11.
Synecdochivity
Forgive me my twisting of love into pun,
pretending the cosmic is simply good fun.
It's awkward to joke about sharing a soul,
but the truth is I offer a part for your hole.
12.
Men are those creatures
with two legs and eight hands.
~Jayne Mansfield
Just when I was certain
I'd mastered the skills.
Six more damn hands?
Try Craigslist. Or pills.
13.
The paradox of love:
Surrender. Autonomy.
Do me! Not that way!
14.
We began,
that first night,
with a no.
Who can count
the yeses?
15.
The National Association of Rudimental Drummers
Spread 'em -- and lie still. Tonight we're going to
pat again and I've been reading up all day to learn
the forty rudimental drum strokes. The paradiddle
is a place to start-- you lie still!--and then a flam
but all of it gentle, teasing, not ever papatting quite
as hard as you want -- pat pat pat -- and remember
the pataflafla (ah, you do remember but you better
do a better job of lying still), the double ratamacue
--hey keep 'em spread -- the bounce roll (ooooooo,
you like that one) the Swiss army triplet (your face
is getting red, don't forget to breathe, babe) pat pat
. . . pat -- let's slow the tempo down. No? You beg?
Maybe you like it ruff? Or faster now -- a paradiddle-
diddle followed by pancakes, tachuda and chuhudas
--omigawd, you're wet -- so who th'hell could focus
on names, ba-da-DUM and there you go, you come.
16.
Sneak Peak
I'm sorely afraid of messing with the Heisenberg Principle of Magnificently Delicious Sneakability here (mentioning it annihilates it), but that fresh-faced guy the other night gave you more peak pleasure in half an hour than I've conjured lately in a month, and I know, it's always possible that he might just be bi enough to lick us where we're joined or to let me get a good slippery grip on his joint, but let's face it, I saw that yummy mix of dismay and squirminess on your all-too-transparent face when his email arrived, so it's crossed my mind that if -- if, mind you -- if your too-long-abandoned adolescent sneak habits felt like the overwhelmingly nutritious, delicious option to you, well . . .
17.
No More Mr. Nice Guy
Buy your own fooking groceries.
And expect the arm of the couch
pressing the backs of your legs
whenever I damn well please.
18.
How much of life is our smallest acts:
coming home with the groceries,
imagining Christmas dinner,
whispering raunchy poems,
spooning all night long,
listening to our fears,
kissing at the door,
making you grin,
letting me cry,
not cooking,
colluding:
small
acts:
us.
Next week -- the conclusion.
The Poet's Companion - by Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux