I’m undressing you again, under the edicts
of porn. The conspiracy began a long time ago,
reducing us to bare essentials, the way
twilights simplify the sun to candlelight
weeping for more, on the curves and
edges of heat. This is begging purified
into a waltz of elbows and knees balling for
roomier positions. Or perhaps this is
the heart of dissonance, the highest point
of inflections made to decapitate moons away
from myths gone superfluous with
superstitions and religions. We love
the games of clarity exiled from
the murky red-wines of innocent devotions:
They wash our tongues from godheads,
loosen their dignity from language, and
resuscitate gestures back to the grace of
anything animal gone glamorous in selfies.
Indeed, memory hungers for preludes like this,
for the hysterical need of thighs etched on lips
garbed in a state of perpetual glossiness, or any state
that lubricates us for the ultimatums of surrender.
Michael Caylo-Baradi lives where freeways dismiss faultlines. His work has waltzed and tangoed in these venues: The Galway Review, Blue Fifth Review, Bombus Press, The Common, Eclectica, elimae, Eunoia Review, FORTH, Ink Sweat & Tears, Local Nomad, MiPOesias, Otoliths, Our Own Voice, poeticdiversity, Filipino American Artist Directory, and elsewhere. He has penned and penciled reviews and essays for New Pages, PopMatters, and The Latin American Review of Books. He is also an alumnus of The Writers’ Institute at The Graduate Center (CUNY).