By Reta Lorraine Bowen Taylor
The small brown sack
at your lips–
your face, neck, flushed
as if you blush, -again—
and, you ask me for
reasons not to partake
from that sack.
Have you not been listening?
We tease, flirt, pretend future
I have noticed your fine
chest hairs climbing the
trellis of buttons–
have admired the sheen
of the silver upon your wit
as you bring me to my knees
in the crowd—
but, sweet thing, wondrous
creature–(oh, man with brain)
the sack you hold against
I thought you were listening–
I had so hoped
your fabulous mind
For poet Michel Englebert
written 10pm 6-16-94 at a poetry reading
A few notes on my relationship with Michel;
The first time I heard Michel read I noticed two things;
1. he looked like Richard Dreyfus (not seen as a bad thing, mind you)
2. He was a brilliant writer who made the hairs stand in full erect state on my arms when he read...no easy feat for me, as I am pretty jaded and finicky when it comes to what is loosely referred to as "poetry" these days.
Michel's work by far surpassed all the other's in the room, (except my own that is,) and we both immediately recognised that fact and were drawn to eachother, where the sparks began to fly in other ways. They say the mind is the most powerful aphrodisiac, and mine began working double time when I met this brilliant poet who read me into orgasm!
I had the hots (bad) for Michel...but quickly realised he had a severe alcohol problem...being who I am, I thought maybe with a tender heart I could help him with that, but the bottle had him good, and there was no female on this earth that fit better against his lips than that bottle. His brilliance was earth shattering to me, I had hungered to meet a man with a mind like this, and lo and behold---here he was---and he was KILLING it rapidly!!!
Michel and I played with eachother's hot attraction for a couple years, and became great friends, and once in a while attempted to consumate what our brains had started. The chemistry should have been positively illegal it was so hot---but that alcohol that was killing him---that was also keeping me at bay and my walls up.
(I had watched my father die from the same thing when I was 19, so this was not something I was really thinking was attractive about a guy.) Brains yes, being blotto...rolf!!!
Wrote this poem one night after he read drunk (and still blew everybody's minds!!) in the hopes he'd see himself and wake up. I soon discovered that poetry, as in everything else, does NOT reach into the rotting grey matter of the alcoholic, no matter the level of the talent that surrounds it.
Unfortunately, my vision of his future came true, for the wonderful brain is now silent, and will pour no more life into paper, or echo in booming bass off the walls of coffee bars and poetry hot spots the world over.
Too soon, Michel....dammit
couldn't you just be satisfied
with drinking-in your endless TALENT?
If you were here,
first I'd smack you,
then I'd rape you, (or try to!!!)
then I'd make you read me poetry until your mouth went dry,
and then I'd make it wet again.
-Sleep well Poetman and DON'T throw up on God!!!