Tristero Rapid Post

Tristero Rapid Post

by Eric Evans

(Gap) Registered TrademarkAmericaFreckledMusic As WeaponrySlowness Is Her Liquor(Un)time

(GAP) Registered Trademark

As she leans forward, I see
the familiar blue logo -
GAP (registered trademark)
- and dive into the space
between the cotton and her
skin, clinging to the vert
ebrae like a mountain climb
er. I work my way over the
shoulder blade to the strap
I know is there and ride it
down to its hook. One move
ment, tension released and
nature falls with slow motion
into my anticipation.



Is it

white trash,
blue collar?

Or is it

red wine,
white collar,
blue blood?

Is it

red dot clearance,
white sales,
blue light specials?

Maybe it's

red necks,
white devils,
blues singers


bronze plaques,
sliver lining,
gold cards.

Or is it

mountainous purple
bruises from the
inevitable ass-kicking?



freckled lips push
                  fragrant words
that fold my ribs 
                  on themselves l
ike sudden fists;
                  unsuspecting teeth
chew on labored b
                 reath that tastes
of fascination and
                  want; perfect thigh
ed legs climb a sp
                  ine like stairs wh
ere wishful finger
                  s peel back the co
vers to unmake my
                 eyes and sleep ben
eath the lids. wo
                 rds of business fr
ame the conversati
                  on before she walk
s her auburn head
                 and its traceable
body away, leaving
                  the question on th
e countertop: was
                 it twentyminutes o
f love or just a d
                  ifferent (more sop
histicated, more r
                  espectable) form o
f lust?


Music as weaponry

music as weaponry is beautiful -

guitar strings like razor wires
piercing skin and ear drums
beaten bloody in doubletime
saxophones issuing love cries
of violence, anger, sex and love.

music as weaponry is beautiful -

noises of an army of trumpets
crashing in air, metal sheets
of sound cutting bare feet while
piano keys get punched like
teeth in a bar fight, broken
and scattered by genius fists.

music as weaponry is beautiful -

beautiful like my wife's bare
shoulder and my son's laugh,
beautiful like the hairs of
a riflescope trained on the heart
of convention.


Slowness is her liquor

Patience is her aphrodisiac, my
hand on her hip three days before
rewards me handsomely when she
finally moves herself into it.
And slowness is her liquor, the
wine that makes her skin bristle
and wrinkle like wet electricity.

Her pleasure in fingertips along
Her spine for an hour is the enemy

Of my lust, the thing that makes
me look it in the eye, pat its
shoulder reassuringly and smile
a smile that knows what waits
at the end of her patience.



I hear the time count out beneath
the (un)time, hear the sheets of
metal meet between the squeals
of the saxophone and the fingers
pushing the pianokeys heavily.

I hear the pulse in the chaos, the
heart and lungs of the body quartet,
the straight line I a world of
curves, the piece of tin that holds
it all together magnetically.

I know there's a rhythm in the non
rhythms, a beat in the offbeats, a
steadiness in the shifts. I know
(w/ eyesclosedtight) that the time
on the wall is not the time of

most importance.