The Birth of Things to Come


                              for Charles Porter

When Data clicked her studded tongue

against my teeth in the Waffle Haus john

I knew she was the kind of girl

that makes a guy shimmy his jeans

over his Chucks in the handicapped stall

and moan like a wildebeest spurting

its split jugular in a cheetah's mouth

so the glass rattled even as it held

the sports page in its little cage

tacked above the urinal.

As I came she said I come

not to bring peace but a sword.

For all intents and purposes

squeezing a man's scrote like a stress ball

is an odd time to quote the gospel

but as we used to say in the nineties

she had it going on. I took her calls

all July before I changed

my number, but lo and behold

she found me in my favorite booth

with an amber bead of syrup oozing

its sticky trail through my whiskers.

She pulled the little stick

from her purse and jammed its blue plus

under my nose so I caught a whiff

of the estrous piss that made her fly

down Rutland Road and park her Vibe

askew across two spots. Well lo and behold,

I said, a thing I said for months

as I flapped around like a parakeet

and said again the moment she bore down

in the stirrups' halogen sheen

and again when she crushed my hand.

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