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Foster Cameron Hunter


Force of Habit

Swatches 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 Fruit

I 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.

Picture
Picture


​Foster Cameron Hunter's profile

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
    For Sigmund

A velvet skin serpent, fangs perfectly formed
to pierce and inject venom, it rattles
in the shadow cast by corporal sensation.
 
The flesh, a many headed hydra,
stalks the halls of human frailty.
From the cranial cage a coiled python
 
strikes, wraps around the prey then hisses,
Hurt so good—whispers, Sleep. Sleep.
A devil in drag, the flesh covets the ins,
 
the outs, the musky in-between,
slithers in the lust for pleasure
and wholly swallows the heart of life.
 
The flesh puts the Id in idiot.

For You

I would challenge
the specter of death,
wring the neck
of the Grim Reaper
and bring you
his head on a lance.
 
You fascinate
frustrate
elevate
irritate
and titillate.
 
I enjoy the ride--
the emotional gamut
from A to Z.

Mother Earth Belly

The surf hissed and smacked,
a back and forth that tugged
carpe diem’s carpet from beneath me.
It called out epiphanies, mimicked
the pulse of my mother’s heartbeat
through a pre-natal ocean.
Moon inked, my shadow
was like the original I cast
on belly’s wall,
my former womb estate.
Sea oats swayed like fallopian tubes
beneath a bottomless sky awash
with stars as numerous as the chirps
from the night’s cricket cantata.

Identify Yourself

You are a diamond point
carving your name
into the iron face
of bitter opposition--

a fortified city
on a hill,
an iron pillar
and a bronze wall--

the steady dripping
on Gibraltar’s rock,
more than a conqueror,
silver in a crucible--

Truth is,
you’ll never be more
than you think you are.

Comments?

***

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