Foster Cameron Hunter
Force of HabitSwatches of moments,
facets of youth now remain as snap shots, an anthology of innocent emotion. On the cusp, untouched fruit about to ripen, he raced verse by verse, page by page, toward the chapter on accountability. He forced himself to watch what curiosity called for, trained his eyes to ogle what he wasn’t ready to see. Against the baby flesh of his conscience, hormones pressed the needle of their presence, until —POP-- went baby boy’s bubble, paradise lost. Now Pandora’s box was open and all he was, was wasted undercover on slick glossy sheets. He’d discovered the shortcut to shallow release-- slipped on a chain and manacle. Escape from the Beautiful but Too Small Box
In the puddle of our
elation she and I spoon, rapt by the buoyancy of being. Electric current comes in mega-loads and hums around us, through us. We bask in heaven’s limelight, envy of the angels. Juiced on dopamine cocktail, we two with one eye, delight in Psyche’s dance through sunshine’s moon-lit alter-ego. With a wink and a nod we are dismissive, her performance is fleeting fancy. Now unattached to her, swaddled in the Spirit, we breech the black hole horizon of orgasm’s little death. There we revel until the resurrection of arousal. Chelsea
Her hair is a fire. Not a bizarre, wicked clown orange,
not like an umpa-lumpa’s face, not sanguine, crazy Chucky red or bottled magenta number nine, more like burnished metal—resplendent. With curves soft as her syllables, her eyes are carved jade, dazzling in a diamond-dusted patina. When she talks I hang on her lisp, the provocative game her lips play with S sounds, the unmistakable seduction of her velveteen Yeth’s— those dulcet sibilations. I watch, enthralled by the sight of the sounds her mouth makes. The Significance of Freshly Juiced FruitI rose this morning from my dreams’ deep drink
tangerine in hand. As I stood astride her ocean, I peeled her. Sleep was a voyeur ogling from the corner of my eye. As gilded blades of daybreak sliced my face, I split her. Liquid sunshine skeeted, sweet nectar dripped from my palms, juicy sweetness glazed my tongue, I ate her. Dominion
There are more
than ten thousand gallons of redemption red raining on every mile of my soul-cage protest parade. Yuppies and deadheads and Faberge Eggs flank the sidelines of the Road to Somewhere-- where I run the course of a one-man-million-man march, where I moonwalk over active mind-fields, where every impulse is a hair-trigger where rather than wait in line, I shift the fabric of time. In Season
German Queens, juicy
like warm, blood red hearts, Mortgage-lifters as big as babies’ heads; perfect for slicing—tomatoes that holler for sandwich bread and butter pickles. Big-boy was never as strong as Better-boy, but both were steady yielders-- proud poppas. Spilling downward from the trellis, Yellow Tumbling vines swing heavy in the soft wind, full with sweetness the color of sunshine.
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Invisibility
Encased
behind a flesh mask I face you, funneled into an adobe figurine. I peer through tinted windows above full, sculpted lips. I’m the puppeteer inside. You can’t see me. Spoiled Milk ☊
I was a child seduced.
Mesmerized by ABC, CBS, NBC-- suckled at the small-screen nipple, miseducated, inundated by glowing images. I had Good Times with the Jeffersons, poked fun at Aunt Esther with Sanford and Son like we were All in the Family. I learned the Facts of Life from Arnold and Willis; went through my own Growing Pains with dysfunctional Family Ties. I took One Day at a Time, all the while hot for Designing Women. I was mentally masturbated, desecrated by what Neilson rated, was a channel surfer long before my family could afford a remote surfboard. Subliminal advertising commercial misrepresentations-- spellbound, I grew up thinking Life is like TV. It took me 29 years to see television is not 20/20. What Id Is
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