Lovemaking

You are my greatest friend on nights like these. Call me racist, but I prefer you white. Just seems much more clean that way, as opposed to the reds always found in the little joints spread all over Manhattan --carnelian, rufous, or the fire brick shade--always with a semi-gloss finish. Green, too, you see often. Not quite hunter or forest green, but more of a fern, I think. To each his own--I like you white.

White is clean, like the canvas in front of me. But white is the enemy on nights like these, the daunting stare of infinite possibility. The terror of Eden, it is. With one stroke you're thrown from the purity of the blank slate and barred by the angel with the flaming sword who, flapping his wings like a downtown pigeon, crows "you've pick your stroke and, for better or worse, must now proceed." I dab my brush into sunglow and, mixing, lighten it up into schoolbus. The brush is brought to the white, and I pause. The tyrant white.

On nights like these, I love you so--not for the white alone, but for the black as well. And how the two oppose! The glazed ivory is stalwart, cool and strong. Inside, though, rushes a maelstrom of black, liquidy chaos, steaming hot with the caffeine muse. And I cherish simple you for the absolute binaries you manage to be. The hot stuff would burn and spill terribly but for you, cool white.

Thus, the tyrant white's blank gaze making me want to cry, I bring you in for a dear kiss. A strange sort of lovemaking ensues, and I imbibe the liquidy passion that makes up your steaming soul.

And, in post-coital ease, I inhale your sweet, bitter breath. With a final kiss, I thank you and God for you, and I dab my schoolbus yellow onto the hospitable white.