Thursday, June 30, 2016

THERE AREN'T REALLY ANY RULES

You've felt 
this coming—
as a kid, it

drifted
towards you, 
then pulled away, lifting 

the little hairs on your bare arms 
and legs as it retreated. It
waxed

and waned like this 
for years, but it always 
remained.

Now that you're 
old enough,
the full consequence

suddenly surges 
to smack you, exactly 
like an orgasm would—

on some spot 
on your body 
that you can't 

really locate. For about 
four seconds, 
there aren't any

any rules. And
at first, you feel 
vulnerable, then 

emboldened by the waves 
of brave coolness 
prying wider 

and wider
this ecstatic invisible 
wound deep inside you,

and then, finally, 
there's that combination
of relief and 

moderate disappointment
in the familiar pithiness
of its fizzle. 

Another betrayal—
no sound, 
no visual,

nothing 
demonstrable. 
Just a 

sucking feeling. 
An implosion
chased fast

by the usual aftertaste
of rusty imitation
vanilla.