First crack full of sand

When I was six
my family went to Pensacola.
I loved the ocean,
The crash of the waves,
the seashells, bikinis,
the smell of suntan oil,
the scent of the women.
That’s when I got my first
crack full of sand, and
understood why the girls
were joyfully squealing.
The pleasure of it all,
the compacted joy of sand
scrubbing the erotica
between your legs.
As I grew older I found
more entertaining pleasures.
Slow dancing at the Jaycee Teen Town,
sweaty, butch wax duck-tailed hair,
unforgiving layers of petticoats,
the over use of Chanel number 5,
Clearasil, moon pies with RC Cola,
Pabst Blue Ribbon, copping a feel,
penny loafers, pack of Lucky Strikes, and
desire rubbing hard up against desire.
College years were complicated.
I was a spring buck in heat,
quantum copulation in the backseat,
breathless fondling expression,
whispered promises to break.
Woodstock, bra burners, free love,
girls without innocence,
consequential satisfaction,
that potent release.
But time plays a mirthful game,
pulling away the layered onion
of age, the mark of the years,
making a living, satisfying
the man, the big kahuna.
The shaving of obligation,
the dues collector paid,
screw yourself the common gratification.
The postmortem of Vietnam,
chaos theory imposed by Old Charter.
That leaves only the thought of
what was, the ego of who,
the id of what is, the sensual,
pulsing, erotic, clamor for the whole.
The part hidden to youth by
the discrimination of age.
Driven by the pull of experience,
the itch of sand, slow dances, backseats,
ecstasy in a world of derivative pleasure,
knowing all this is life’s warp and woof.
Founded in the assurance of the past,
there is only one sound left, only one vowel,
the melancholy plenary discomfort of the future,
it is: “Uuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour

The Mini Me puppet master

I salute you little man,
sitting in your easy chair,
watching the kaleidoscope of life.
The flickering images,
yours to interpret, to filter,
to massage into a lump of the thought
you desire, devour, project.
No one knows who you really are,
hiding behind the screens of experience,
emotions, beliefs, scraps and bits.
Dorothy’s curtained wizard manipulating,
pulling stage ropes, flipping the switches.
Each time the mouth speaks,
you are the hand choosing the words.
Every instance a touch is felt,
you are the sense given.
The heart and brain only apparatuses
to contain you, comfort you, feed you.
A masochistic misologist person,
twisted, distorted by grappling
with your own contradictions.
I love you and I loathe you,
the ying and yang of my soul,
infantile patriarchal spark with in.
The Mini Me puppet master, marionette,
Freud’s das Es, the id sewn flesh to flesh,
my didactic homunculus self.

© 2009, Donald Harbour