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Diamond38 by Julio Mateo

    poem by Janet Kenny
    art by Julio Mateo

I never thought about men
who live alone. Never.

I have lived with a man
most of my life
yet never imagined a man alone,
unused to a passing caress,

exchanged glances,
a knowing laugh of recollection.

How sad. How sad.

Women fear something called
dirty old man,
and shriek triumphant
if touched in a train.

Let me explain

he was not touched for years
except by his dentist, until the unbearable
isolation engulfed,
and that touch was a spasm
before his heart died.

original music by Mike Rushford    |    sides of me    [ ISDN ]    [ 28.8 ]

    poem by Ani Gjika
    art by Fran Barrault

When you sit
over my legs
tickling my belly,
you're a crazy old man
worshiping my Chi
with hands, eyes
and chants in a language
I've never heard
but understand.
Then, when you lock
your hands with mine
coming down
to seize my lips,
you're the cataract of vim;
your lips splash
on my peripherals
overtake all my portals
no longer traveling
the outskirts,
you're in.

Primavera by Fran Barrault