Frank S. Palmisano III

The Rendezvous

12:50 AM-
He is only committed to my body
when it yields inspiration-
his fingers skim through my
hair follicles like a desperate student
looking for an annotated bibliography
to give substance to his paper,
no time to probe the rich curvatures,
no abusive foreplay,
no research required.
And yet every night about this time
I welcome his intrusive figure,
his torturous hands once gentle in
their former years, now abrasive
instruments scouring the surface of
innocence. The gem of young concealed
under so much dust and debris, his
methods are harsh and disregard the
delicate exterior, as chard which scatters
in the wind with precious fragments of
trust and comfort.
1:00 AM-
Damn, He's always late,
always encumbered in procrastination.
If he enters the doorway, he enters with
determination, penetrating the inner
sanctuary of thought without proper
atonement...
he is no Moses,
and no savior lies dormant in his shell.
Like a high priest he compels me to lie
down and service his traditions,
too accustomed to blood sacrifice,
too feeble to desecrate the
holiness he's invented in this all too often
engagement - Ah! true intentions are so much
Freudian bullshit.
1:20 AM -
I slip out of bed quietly-
so that my steps dissolve in
the percussive shower that pelts
the window.
With ceremonial chastity,
I measure each step, marking
the floor boards- surveying those that creek
and those that crack, synchronized
with the thunderous
barbarian looming over the house.
-I've done this before, I can do this now...
1:25 AM-
I undo the tassel on my pajama top,
as he loots the drawers wildly,
finds his plastic deterrent-
it always helps to maintain a working
relationship--he says--no one gets attached.
Impulse and ecstasy, the old woman
lies catatonic in the next room,
his stamina once again animated by
of this dimension of danger:
I pretend it's me.

Frank S. Palmisano III is the 24 year old self-proclaimed chancellor of prolixity turned poetic nutritionist. He recommends a daily diet of controversy topped with a healthy splattering of introspection and word play. Baltimore, MD is the habitation he calls home, where he serves his linguistic feasts at competitive prices. His most recent work appears in the May issue of: Recursive Angel and The Dead Mule, along with Poetry Magazine.com and the literary journal: Mediphors.