Pinches

gave away my secret recipe for conjuring up poems to your fly-by-night mask. the price I would pay for loving the unloving power hungry, deaf in the ear of humility and female humanity listening for the woman song humming the ancient melody dancing together like trees attracted like a tributary to the stream of sweat down your lips into my mouth as we kissed instead of speaking strangers in a nation approaching spiritual death, and rebirth war in the world is war within and between when intentions are as primal as a lusty animal not in love with human reverence for the rounding of my belly with the son we'll never have. this time, it didn't take long to transcend your pinching pain on my waist, which led to illusions you didn't mean it when you pinched me, both sides of my waist, on the skin exposed above the beltloop of my jeans. you, the transient mountain guide roaming the states of America playing your cards like a cowboy throwing $2. bills, the next day at the consequence in my body you created with your barbarism and I created, disillusioned by the illusion you presented me. a hard drink, spiked with roofies the Big Band alive with the energy of the Aerosmith concert, just let out that night, with rumors that Steven Tyler would show at the bar.