Poetry & Art of the Intelligently Erotic
Issue 3.5
Maurice Oliver - Mentally in Tahiti
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Dear Samantha,
Sorry for taking so long to write but that path etched along
a faraway wash of sequoias turned out to be a grizzly in my
shower. The space I told you I needed was nothing more
than Seattle, sleepless in a blueberry patch. I miss you,
and so does the old badminton net in the backyard. Beige
curtains moving in the breeze. A white ceiling about to file
for bankruptcy. The way I see it, if Beethoven could write
music practically deaf, than we should be able to share the
greenhouse plastic mute frayed around the bed post and still
find true love gone but not to Tahiti. I'll even let you use a jar
of varicose as your boxing gloves. So, unearth your stack of
Katherine Hepburn hellos and I'll search for my Ray Charles
sunglasses and we can spread lady marmalade all over
the heating pad. Has a manhood or maybe calls it pistol.
Either way, sky drivers are all pink-cheeked boggy cords.