How She Fucks

That clock on the microwave again.

I get up but take my time. My ass doesn't have to be anywhere this morning. I make my coffee, get online and blog and write emails. The time melts away like candlewax. I am surprised but soon it's time for me to get ready to go to the Big House. I get my shit packed and head to the Way, this time getting on at the 96th Street Station. I'm not walking on the weekends. That's the rule. If I can keep up with it is the real deal.

I get to the Big House with perfect timing. Perfect. When I get there the doors open and they begin letting in patrons. I flowed with the crowd upstairs and found my seat against a long table. Electra showed up, and my brother shortly after. I settled down to blogging.

I was told that I don't have much of my poetry on the web. That I must not like my own swill. Well, to tell you the truth, my poetry can be a bit hard edged as well as sweet. I just see the world differently from most. I had to live out in it for quite a long period of time. The street changes you, makes you bolder, meaner, rougher. I'm not a bad ass, no, not by a long shot. But my poetry can be a little coarse. I suppose that's the price you pay.

This is a poem about me. I tell you this because everybody asks me: "Is that about you?" No, not everything that I write happened to me. A lot of times I either see it happen to someone else or straight out imagine it. Well, this is about me and how I view the world. I'll explain myself afterwards:


HOW SHE FUCKS

It's strange
That when
I first see a woman
I wonder how she fucks

I wonder how
she looks
when she has
the Big O

I wonder how
she grinds
her hips

Moves her legs
spreads her
arms

Splays her hair, wide
exposes her neck, bare
opens her legs, long
holds her breasts, spry

purses her lips, red
pants and breathes, heavy
blushes in naked places
moans and groans, deeply

I wonder
what she looks
like when
she fucks

Maybe I've been
watching porn too
much

I think that I've watched porn to much. Or else I have a very vivid imagination. There is a baseline to the human experience isn't there? There's one thing that we all will end up doing sooner or later...well I hope all, maybe I should have said most. There are some celibates out there that have sworn off fucking for good. But some of them don't count because they've either had fucked before or later. Whatever, my point is is that every one does it, and sometimes, when I see a woman, I wonder what she would look like naked and writhing, getting hit with the Big O, ya know? I know that I'm not the only man that ever thinks this way. I'm not that strange.

Just my little peculiarity. I bet many of you wished you hadn't asked me to put up some of my poetry about now. The Hobobob of me will put stuff like this up. The softer side of Hobobob....uh, well, I wonder if there is a softer side of Hobobob. We'll just have to see.

Soon, it is time for me to get ready to go to The Bengal Curry. A small restaurant that has poetry readings. I have to produce my next article for the web magazine so I pack up and head out with OBSIDIAN in tow. We get there in the evening and I shoot pictures of the place from the outside for the magazine, and then we go in. It is a small restaurant, quite cramped with poets at the tables. It's a fast Indian food restaurant with a counter in front of a series of steam tables, behind which are the servers, scooping up this or that for you. Packaging it if you want to take it to go, putting it on a plate if you want to stay.

Word is that we HAVE to buy food. Hmmm, I look at my funds. They are running on fumes. OBSIDIAN comes up and points out something cheap. Some kind of meat filled dumpling or another. The Indian server behind the counter said something to me about what it was, but either I didn't understand him or didn' t digest what was said. Either way, I spent five dollars on four dumplings, as big as baseballs.

The reading begins and each poet gets up to read for a few minutes and we applaud. There is a break and a collection is made. Whoa...I reach for my pockets and they are coming up empty. Shit. OBSIDIAN comes up to me, wondering if I got him for the 'vig'. Sorry bub, I don't even have myself. This money tree has had it's last leaf shaken loose. When one of the hosts comes by, hand out, I tell him that I don't have it and can I give it to him at the next SHOUT OUT. He tells me to forget about it.

Whew. I don't care about what you might think, but that shit still hurts.

At the end of the reading I interview the two hosts and it is a lively interview. It lasts for only five or six minutes and then I'm done. We get up and with a few stragglers, head out into the night. Six of us head out, five of us get on the Way, two of us get off at 14th street station, and only I head to 96th street and home.

How she fucks....
Heh

Hobobob