Philandering in Indiana

Planes draw lines in the welkin;

the sun's exhaustion has taken notice.

She rubs her cricket-legs unfastened—

my driver who is sure to speed 

this skid road the whole way down,

where the heaven sent careen hell bound

in the brink of Beelzebub's fang.

The fire burns in both our crotches.

And she never wanted to sleep

like a baby but more like her husband,

who's undoubted eyes always stay shut,

through the tapping then the pounding

of the credit card numbers that bear the cost

of the sex toys he'll never deem handy.

But what do I care about her husband?

Sleeping at home, blind to the fact.

So what if he wakes up to his neck in debt, 

finds his family ripped in half

like the marriage license his wife and I 

tossed into the rip of the St. Joseph River,

before a night much like this very own: 

the dimming street lamps barely detect us.

It seems they have all focused their attention

toward the sex shop on Western Avenue.

And I can't stop thinking of when

my brother would scare me

by shining a flashlight under his chin, and then

he'd call me a faggot, but unbeknownst to him,

I have just purchased the Couples Cock Ring,

and it's specifically made with her in mind. 

And gladly I'll place it around myself

only to revel in the deepest of holes,

where friction is the first phase—feeling 

the warmth of each other's rhythm,

our biological stopwatches tick,      

timing the nerves passing the endorphins

their batons in our own molecular relay race,

amidst the windshield touching hot breath,

resembling a London fog. 

The paths unroll their filth and tapestry

as we move high off lover's speed. 

I tell her to let loose and swallow;

I tell her "some advice can kill

two birds with one stone." 

She tells me she loves giving head,

then takes advantage of her own plasticity,

freeing herself from the buckling clasp. 

Inclined to me, for a moment our eyes meet—

the pit of my stomach in sour pink knots, 

my penis unraveling like a black snake firework,

preceding the first time ever 

my orgasm didn't end with sticky Kleenex  

and a porno on pause.

I suddenly feel like it's high school again;

I'm in the utility room of my girlfriend's basement,

where eventually I come in her mouth

the same way a sprinkler might wet the lawn.

The walls dripped with albatross. But luckily,

my current concubine doesn't require

a laundry tub to spit in; she's grown fond

to swallowing the infamous taste, the feel—

slimy like a slug, salty as a runny nose.