Golden Sexuality sits by an open window his hair shining, his lean legs crossed. He considers the hills wearing their shadowy green the glacier-strike lake they curve into born cold, gone balmy, rippling life.
He remembers stag chases trysts in the leaves—the fleshy shock and shudder discovering exposed roots with his bare back.
He sinks his consciousness into the water the fingertip tendrils of his god-form first
followed by the instinctually flexed shoulders still warm from the running catch hollow chest where the feral heart echoes root-wounded back crossed legs golden, shining hair.
The Star is the center. All Things revolve around it—the Room, dimly lit—the flashing Optics—gilded mirrors that Turn on time—doors pulling Themselves open and closed— Gears, wheels, sprockets, Springs—gods, humanity— All dizzy things.
The croupier god comped me a suite at The Palace, (offseason), and led me through the hallways personally, making smalltalk, explaining how the elevators work, keeping a steady pace while his scuffed rake dangled from a black elastic loop sewn custom into the lining of his white suit jacket. He opened the coded door for me, (first try), deciphered the thermostat, unstuck the drawers, programmed the remote to new, in-house channels, and turned the well-dressed bed down.
He said, “This luxury is where you lie.”
He handed me a gold card with my name embossed, black laurel in the upper right corner framing a female silhouette with an EZ-Read magnetic strip on the backside hovering over a hotlist of company-owned joints.
He said, “This is how we feed you for free.”
He strummed his swarthy fingers over an orderly row of three-score and ten play-worn purple checks arranged in an open, unfinished wooden box lined in remnant green felt and set on top of the empty honor bar.
He said, “And these? These are a very good start.”
As of today, this poem is ten years old. Crazy crazy crazy. Happy New Year everyone!