Eat

Her vagina is uncooked
Bacon strips I fiddle
With my salmon tongue
Like an untuned cello.
It smells of thyme
and bergamot hair food
From Sally's Beauty Supply
On 125th street.

She says she likes when
Brothas eat her out
But most don't like to eat
So Latin brothas take care of her,
Devour her like mofongo con camarones.

"Do you like to eat?" She asks.

Words are
Muffled by
Mind and mouth
On her and Devouring
All her tender parts,
Keeping mind on matter
And matter elsewhere—
Sucking dick
At 17,
And stalked Him like syphilis
For more than a decade
Trying to get my Daddy
Back, back, back to me
After he left me,
Left us like a July 4th
Firecracker over the Hudson.

"Do you like to eat?" She asks.

Coming up for air
From the thick, vertical dampness;
the scents of Victoria's Secret
Garden Vanilla Lace Hydrating lotion
and menthol cigarettes,
I respond
"No."

“Then stop," she says, "It didn’t feel good anyway.”

La Petit Mort

I.
Masturbation is best
when using both hands
wrapped tightly like pursed lips
with a hot-ass tongue flicking
to seal an envelope
containing the winning Lottery ticket—
taking breath away from those who envy.

II.
That's how Death must feel like
when she comes-a-knockin',
taking one by surprise,
too early or too late in life.
Like Grandma whose eyes welled,
mirroring Angels who soon took her breath
as she clapped, celebrating life.

III.
Alone
He hanged himself daily
While jerking off
To borrowed VHS tapes
Until ejaculation,
Until the little death, inside him,
Deprived him of life.

Petals and Beagles

Petals and Beagles
by Stephen Earley Jordan II

I wish I knew who lived above me in apartment 4C.

At 3:17am on fridays, tuesdays and wednesdays
and sometimes mondays and thursdays,
I hear rose petals crushed under workboots,
homemade butterscotch stirred
with a wooden-handle spoon,
cartoons switching to reruns of MASH.

I wake myself sweating
like your mother's menstruation (long gone),
wiping myself in 500-count silk sheets,
remembering when you forced me to watch
Comet and Snickers, your childhood male beagles,
give IT to each other, grunting and barking and panting
while I shivered in the corner of the toolshed
your father made just for them,
the hamsters, gerbils, and rabbits.
With a slight grin, eyebrow raised,
smelling of aqua velva aftershave,
and bubbalicious bubble gum,
you said, "This is between us."

You were sent away, somewhere far away
like a deferred dream,
where falling stars are caught
and placed into position by black cherubs,
where boys become men
with blinded wives,
and you will forget me.