Sightings
by pan314
a poem



  Shutter chased, 
eyeballed, expected of and objectified, 
spun away from the beach heads
 where languid envoys suck from aluminum 
and hide their television bellies.

  Where fellas stare as ensconced apes
 in thickened glass waiting for anything to fuck at all.
 ebony's over wifey eyes unhinged from their faces
all of the sudden, spirited crooning falls disjunct
-cleaving the upwind...she is the actual

 Carravagio flesh of Venus,
just trying to make it back to her blanket
setting off faces like breaker boxes,

 The lined mechanism of her life's work
in full stride, the way that she eases every connection
into place, tendon -then ligament -then handfuls
of fiber dressed over some ballast
of Terpsichorean bone... just everywhere.

 Her skin follows zig-zagged conduits 
of blood in unfinished screaving, enswathed sunlight
spangles vivid over every elliptic inch of her,
every salted rivulet, every gauge of dramatic
chroma spikes her stride with baby rainbows

  all of the sanguine wisp that Vargus missed,
moreso the measure that a sillhouette ever
contours against that dusky eye. Thrice reborn.

  or when just browsing the produce aisle,
upstarting old folk's spectacles by the turn 
of a melon or testing bartlets with a squeeze.
Her inadvertent striations cross for function,
her matter flows in for nothing more than routine,

   and relaxation as the carriage of a leopard
coiled up and napping, even in breathing, 
shadows wedge into her lathed frame. A dynamism,
an Arabesque instrument of nature
made of no man's hand, no antiquated ethic 

    or trinket for fat fingers to improperly anneal.
In fact, she might rather press and reduce such a lummox
to little more than powdered bone and flesh under heel.

   Flanged, the buttocks alarm from her waistline,
parenthetic rhythm gives allure the golem of her back
rolling like fleshed out lace, and arms drawn down into joint,
thickened to posture all so erotic, a profile scalene
under the miracle of her living portraiture.

    Her legs, every qualification of the Pieta
as if truly carved by the hands of that master,
they thrust up and blooming from stricture to something flora
then dazzle into the abdomen, plated and undulating,
faceting with every dramatic stretch.

     even fascia in quashed starlight seems to unveil
layers and layers at the envy of Aphrodite,
how even the gods might distract their eyes from her Hellenic fortune.

      I look and can't recover from the walloped idea
that such somatic beauty can manifest in strength,
strength of mechanics and mind, the will of millionaires
and the discipline of the Olympiad. But that is just
bullshit anyway. These are, after all,  just people.

     They fail quizzes and trip over roots. They weather headaches 
in the small hours when newborns need them most.
They lock their keys in the car and mispronounce names,
Women, taxpayers, rat racers, wives and babysitters,
what anyone lives through, I've found, just by small exchange

   with a few. But how ever guessed? After all,
they are the unwonted awes of physiology, and I, only a man.
Before them, I can only temper the dreams of these lifelong revelations.