Which Is Where We Are Now

Belly–dancing Friday & Saturday nights
 Ask about our cakes and pastries
 together on the hookah menu
It feels illegal
 this fantastic peace–pipe
 imported from a distant land
 where — I imagine — it is the usual
 mouthpiece playing the timeless tune of friendship
 in some tent with cushions and languishing heat
We talk of brownies
 as we inhale deeply
 blowing dragon’s breath from our nostrils
 attempting Gandalf rings
We talk of communism and kibbutz
 as the silent flat–screen
 entrapped in its frame
 trails on pitching capitalism
Abruptly comes the belly dancer
 sword balanced on head
 smirk balanced on lips
 a knowing corniness goes unheeded
 tables laugh giddy with defense
It feels illegal
 this brazen display
 with its own language it speaks fluently
That middle–aged Persian
 to whom I earlier beamed
 glares at her — all the women do —
 not enviously
 at beauty speaking its truth
 which all possess and most mostly murmur
All part of the act
 dancer coaxes handsome man
 to mimic her poorly in happy embarrassment
 revealing the difference between babble and eloquence
Then the young, curly-haired maiden stands
 and with so natural an expression on her face
 silently undulates a state of grace
 echoing phrases of child’s play
 the staff see her and she is suddenly attired in native spangles
Everyone understands the dance now
 the entire table of Persians join them
 the Africans on the other side of us, too
And me, I wax on
 about the bump and grind
 with a generous tutor
A beautiful woman entreats
 to dance with the dancer
 and share in the speech
O happy buzz, good–natured delirium
 The things we are saying this Saturnalia
 I am always hearing them
Thank you, hookah, magic lamp,
 who cleans the substance’s impurities
 and turns smoke white
for the young maiden’s sweet grace
 and a pleasant night

We all partake in that sacred ritual
To learn that craft
takes sun and moon
 bird and bee
for so much cloth
 through which to thread our hearts
and fashions a garment
 upon our soul to rest
Each knowing so much flair
 decorates so much unseen

Such a pleasant day
I would have you both
 going your wild way
 in this idle neighborhood
only circumstances have tethered
 us together
Such eagerness
 pulling so hard
 you choke yourselves
 wheezing in recovery
 only to choke yourselves all over again
Never realizing I just want a pleasant walk

I ponder the cure:
Abrupt turns fore and aft
Until your ears remain half–cocked
 on me
Never realizing my purpose
Just wanting a pleasant walk

Barely able to contain herself
her militant stature holds back
 not understanding why
just some vague remonstrances of the past
 create a tension
so when she braves again to steal a kiss
 her grimaced forbearance
 some biting and tasting
 is either far away or hard–pressed
 lashing out in a constant stream of lacerations
The other: clever, laid–back, self–possessed
 never seems to want for affection
 till her eyes betray her
Only the tenderest kisses will she take
 and over and over, so deep her reception
Perhaps, one morning on a Tuesday
 after such an audience
 one unsubstantial half of tongue slips
 in tacit return

So when clever black stays home
 to rest her lame leg
And bold blonde bolts through the forest
 to terrorize squirrels again
I'm lost —
 yell and yell and yell
  with no recourse
Only when I whisper
 do her sensitive ears melt her heart
 and she comes bounding back
 out of nowhere

Universe
how is it that I am the privileged participant?
Your beauty sings with each subtle movement
Shall we not be friends?
 Let us walk
 Each passing creature
 you know so well
 your sentient beings with each their kingdom
 introduce them to me
 And I shall be so well received
thanks to the auspices of my acquaintance

Universe of the stars
 and the silhouettes of trees
The delicate rain of
 new life on leaves
The chorus of whir
 from frogs in the stream
Nightingale, who beckoned me,
 twice I echo your somber call
Only when I quit you
 does the pretty fluting of another
 appropriately answer your question