Poetry
SCABLESS
by Juliana Huxtable
Attenuations of ginger fray to ahistorical glia, as
Stretching chest from which brief tresses are pulled,
And Areolis discs of freshly bathed plume
Shimmy aria coos among scents of the,
Still elsewhen, lingering drift of
Parasentient chiffon adown
The bankless radiating slopes
Of my epigenetic allelochemical aura.
It must be a full moon, wonders
The I, glancing at the wet, wet
Mouth of a lover’s gustatory lust
Whose analemmas, obediently,
Followed by their shadow, overenthusiastically,
Abrasing My epigenetic
allelochemical aura, into
Ultravisbility.
You say, “What,” As if the surface of
I were not tickled:
Raw, prickled, kairomonal.
Is laughing: fruit begetting rejoinders for
Want’s servitude to historical responsibility,
And, paradoxically, to its opaque former life as
Blossom: of whose horny essence pheromonal
Notes retain only extant diminutions
Calling to the competing signals of what an irishman is
To the inflamed sensory pathways of the I.
Into anti-hero pilot, the deprecating self flattens and
Extends its planes for need to be needed,
Bursting, soundbite bubbles as licked,
Giggling kisses as cued, then
The screenplay’s logistics jamble to halting
Enjambment—sparks! as the aura’s circuitries
Are crushed circuitously; exorcised via papillae of
Semiochemical historicity, eaten
From between the thighs of self.
Slob on my cat, get it nice and wet;
We suture all that can be from what always unfortunately was,
In which auspice perversions of practical and paramount,
lapping highways weathered by
Wheels of proverbial forefathers,
Their repressed tongues and
Toys of mid-century midwest steel.
Revitalization in temperance of family prohibitions,
Effortful pulses blast alloy confession, chase
Icons along the hushed traverse of weeping rivers, once trails
To a mall in Chicago’s Jockeys—tight
Whities I now pull you through so easily.
Or rather, make way for your glans to find
My uvula engrossed in the oscillation of ethnic production.
Realness, real fucking
Americanness, untidy,
Sawdust and powdered russet
dust stuck to You’s sturdy form,
Slinging surety; its focus engrossed in
The oscillation of ethnic production.
Toiling towards scabless elopement without love, We
on the floor of a woodworking studio,
Redeem our enjambments, drool puddles,
Reflecting pool in the Norman Rockwell navel,
Deflecting exhaustion to memory palace,
Landing the you and the I, shored up,
Breathless In Manna–hata.
