It’s Spring. The New Yorker’s latest cover features naked satyr’s ravishing each other in Central Park. Tiger Woods is back. Sex is floating in the air (ever-present, loud), not unlike the sound from the jackhammer outside my window right now. The Morning Benders – who I had the privilege of watching live not long ago in the studio apartment HQ of Epilogue Magazine – have your soundtrack:
You tried to taste me,
And I taped my tongue to the southern tip of your body.
Our bones are too heavy to come up,
Squished into a single cell of wood.
I made an excuse.
You found another way to tell the truth.
I put no one else above us.
We’ll still be best friends when all turns to dust.
We are so smooth now.
Our edges are beaten drift wood and whittled down.
Old bodies slip when they make love.
We’ll mine our sparks to shoot us above!