Michelangelo is thinking about carving
a raised mole somewhere, an afterthought.
My head is just too big,
yet I can't express my thoughts
about the eagerness of your hammer
and the edges of your stone chisels
or tell them the size of a pebble
in the suppleness of leather
and the right length of my sling
or reveal your secret,
what happened that midnight
when you fondled me and yourself.
I want the earthiness of fired clay
or the pale brown of basswood
or the distinct rust of iron;
marble's ivory is for Greek Penelope
or Roman Venus and Minerva
or someone's virginity;
that's not my authentic skin tone—
I'm a lowly sheep herder
in the Middle Eastern desert,
discolored by dust storms and the sun.
He checks David's tight buttocks, foreskin,
and smooth testicles. "The exact age I like."
You know I climb mountains,
wrestle with a giant rock,
duel with foxes and wild wolves,
and down tigers or a lion,
but I see no traces of wounds
on my chest and bare back,
no scar on my knee or elbow,
and no rashes from weeds and grass;
I want manly marks and body hair
not those motherly varicose veins.
My c0ck and balls really look funny
as though you have misplaced
your compass and ruler;
I don't think you want a great comedy
or girls to giggle then laugh
or lustful women to think of pity;
now let's talk about my pubes—
the flame of the burning bush
or furniture's whorls and curlicues,
you tell me, Michelangelo.
"Fvct it! I'm so done with you. That's it.
I still have a mother and a toddler to finish."
Reply With Quote