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Blind Porn
-from the Uppity Blind Girl poems
Imagine reading Playboy to the blind!
exclaims the TV host, not just the articles,
but the pictures! she says, breathlessly,
I hope it's filthy, so sordid it gives blind
porn a bad name, Uppity whispers to Sabrina,
stroking her hair, flicking the remote, tickling
her toes under the silky, pear-scented sheets.
This was only their two month anniversary,
Uppity thought, but they'd clicked that night
when they kissed in Washington Square Park,
until this guy, panting, leered, I gotta take a pic
with my phone – two blind chicks making out!
Sightless furies in spiked heels,
the ladies aimed their canes toward
CellMan's dick.
Damn bitches! he screamed,
Whad'ya got – radar?
We wanna get a sound bite
of your balls turning blue!
the furies hissed, nothing
would give us more bliss!
Why, to the sighted,
are we creatures
from a smutty Black Lagoon?
Uppity wondered,
they turn off the TV,
undress,
sip wine,
check their breath,
pray to the gods
of good sex
and tenderness,
just as I do now,
before I make love
to my lady.
Who knows?
Uppity murmured,
biting Sabrina's
eager ear,
if this be blind porn,
so be it.
The Porpoise in the Pink Alcove
On the yellow sand
outside the Lobster Shack
in Provincetown,
sucking pewter-hued belly clams,
with our eyes stuck on each other
like honey to hot sticky buns,
our legs entwined like Silly Putty,
a porpoise snorted, sniffed,
then put its head on our hands,
looking for food or affection.
Maybe, in some sand-dune dream,
this creature strolled down streets,
seeking rainbows,
genuflecting to drag queens
in gold lame gowns
as long and winding
as the staircase in All About Eve,
with black pearls, sultry
as Barbara Stanwyck in Double Indemnity.
We weren't sure.
We only knew:
we had our pink alcove.
Bellinis and Beluga
You never, as I did, devoured news
of politics and gossip
like hot cakes on a winter morning,
you ravished bellinis and beluga
at the Ritz,
as if they were hot stock tips.
The mysteries of the Dow,
sleeping habits of rats
(you killed two
nestled in our yard),
computer viruses,
and puss
(you lanced a boil
on my back as if you
were calmly turning
the oven on);
didn't faze you.
I no longer imbibe
bulletins of power and intrigue.
Like Annie Oakley with her gun,
I battle mice and Spyware alone,
market bubbles and busts
daily splatter my radar screen,
Yet, I still can't touch
the pen on your nightstand
or open the fortune cookie you left
in your pocket the day before you died.
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