Ray McManus. For the pump of it, the drop with the brake, the tongue tip, the anus, the nipple.

31 Oct

FOR THE PUMP OF IT, THE DROP WITH THE BRAKE, THE TONGUE TIP, THE ANUS, THE NIPPLE

For the pump of it, the drop with the brake, the tongue tip, the anus, the nipple
still pointed in the sunlight that floods under the visor; for the new sun that starts
to shimmer before it explodes into a million suns, and all I have left
is you and me covered in sheets, the sweat of it cooling the engine.

That’s when I hold your hand on the console, riding the two-lane through
the swamp past the blockhouses and garages where the boys break radios
to fan belt overtures. That’s when I feel the warm damp of your palm.

A running engine must be tuned, pulled hard, turned over, and tuned again.
The exhaust of it. The rise. The hail. To be on top of it. Man always wrestling
with his machine.

In town, the people look the same, wear clothes from the same makers, speak
in same to same. It’s all the same. There are no garages to wrestle, just windows.

We walk in town in held hands, in stride toward any corner, look both ways
before crossing, live cautious and deliberate. We hardly speak a word
until we reach our destination, and even then, what we are thankful for,
we sit with a weight in our laps testing the outer limits of quiet.

It is not until we give attention to our scars, the same scars, that we no longer
remember why we came here in the first place. It is not until then do we
look for the fastest possible route to savagery.

Here, where we can’t trick out the word. Here, where there is no word.
Just us. Now pulled over and out. Your head in my lap, my hand under yours,
the engine humming, the slow, steady tap. For the quick of it to come.

 

whitmanprintproject

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