Monday, October 1, 2007

Jennifer Van Buren

Steel Desk Solid

it took two men to move
your old desk into the new office
watchful eyes over cubicle spy
just too damn ugly is all
consider this replacement?

acrylic fingernail points
page 36 particle board under
high gloss laminate
disposable inorganic
beautiful lie

you and I need our metal solid
wood all the way through
mercury rising
through capillary tubes
existing expanding
no liquid crystal representation
of reality plugged in

still we exchange digital orchids
and satellite calls
in the bottom drawer
a plastic cock in a box waits
for my address

gears and cranks
grind your flour
in the distance
a brick wall stands
without its building


I do not see myself
in the panoramic stretch of your day
no torn ticket stub fortuneteller,
no colored pebbles from the creek.
Your marble statues do not have my curves,
lady feathers balance lightly among your leaves.
We do not balance lightly.

I want my fingerprints
on your polished mahogany,
paperweights to fall under our disturbance,
manuscript and utility bills to flutter down
around our bare toes.

You tell me you see me everywhere.

She calls to you.
She needs something at the store,
she needs something picked up off the floor.
You owe her you owe her
all the best years.

You must go to her
you must
keep your desk

Express Line

it gives me a sick thrill
to toss the Astroglide
onto the moving belt
forcing pornographic images
into the minds of holiday shoppers.

the motor hums and shakes
the box
towards their order,

until red divider knocks over
their diet coke
forcing the bottle
nose first through pastel toilet paper-
bubbles try to escape, pressure builds

and that is when he sees it--
my box
staring at him.

his eyes shift up to mine,
don't look away now
savor this nerve merge static shock thrill ride
of imaginations opening the package together, aisle 17.

do not unlock this gaze while
he scans through cotton,
compass needle points south
as he dips, slips and slides in slowly
and again harder this time before returning
to my dangerous eyes.

Pulling his sorority sister sweetheart
in a little closer,
he kisses the part
in her natural brown hair
pays in cash.

Not All Berries

I will close my eyes
and tell you what is mine.

This, your beauty I carry with me down aisles
calling for lost children, selecting
the box with the reddest of strawberries.

All of these are mine.
Not all berries, these berries.
Not all children, these children.
Not all of you, but this part of you only I hold.

Other lips may taste juices,
I see them on display,
but not these, not mine.

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