SEIGNEUR BOEMO OR GARLIC: A LOVE POEM

Amidst the fields of the schoolyards and grassy basins
Where small children ask us 
If we will be getting our freak on?
Where plastic lids are lodged between the 
wooden limbs and wooden branches 
Of the trees I dare not climb
Where the arachnids come to visit us
Climbing about my leg without shame
As if they didn't notice it's fleshy presence
Was it not there?
Why should I care? 
I am busy. I am happy. I am deeply wooed-- moved
When I wrap my arms around your paunch, soft and overflowing
When I feed you chickpeas stuffed in graped-tomatoes
Dirt stains upon our knees and I love it 
And garlic- sweet breath , matching 
Tongues intertwining
Saliva swishing! Mingling! Converging in a joined whirlpool of orifice
Of oralness in a young and youthful kiss... 
Be a dear! 
And meet me there 
again.
This is enchanting!
This indigo silk-stocking
This lawyer! this lover, 
This spark! This swain! This gallant...
Next time, I will teach you how to dance--- in the grass , 
(let the arachnids watch, as they will)
Under the sun, flaming upon our backs
My hand upon your back
Show love. Show inspiration
Show life in your eyes
And in your lips and hips and in the palms
That touch me 
For this is more then some giddy ecstasy- a moment of puberty
Some high that is bound to crash
I laugh, it's not some romp for the sake of rump
A copula.. a vinculum dripping with the mundane
Yes. I've seen the emptiness in the faces of infatuation and celerity 
Too much anticipation
When fantasy makes haste.. 
refusing to wait for time to catch up with the rapid pace 
argh.. the impatience!
But such is not the case...
and time passes...
My cheeks will remain sunburnt and rosy
For the next couple days .. but they will slowly fade 
Back to their pale shade of cream 
Or in the mirror it shall seem
And you will return to your world of endless academia
Academic dementia - worshipping the writ of habeas corpus
And all the things that keep you stressed but attentive- intellectually alive
We'll eat the habitual porridge
We'll do the mundane routine that we must do
That pays the bills, 
That ironically invests in the tomatoes, we so much like to feast
And yet it keeps us from our fields and greens
So until the next time that we can be 
amidst these fields -- these trees and grassy basins
oh the sweet silence and breeze that was there before the children came.... 
(Where the arachnids make their social calls--- Avon calling!
Climbing over my leg without shame-like a bridge to something better
did they not notice it's fleshy presence
They are arachnids! Why should they care?)
Do write. Do dream. Do speak. 
Do eat some garlic 
and think of me.