Poetry by j. watters

i’ve heard of these
tantric lovemaking techniques

they say men can go
gently
for six hours or more
before losing a drop

some swami
in an orange suit
got rich in oregon
showing hippies how to screw,
tasting their women

it’s all about patience
and chakras
and controlled breathing
and muscle control

that’s not what i want

i want a tantric fuck

i want six hours
or more
of hip grinding
flesh chafing
heavy breathing
fingernail scratching
pleasure moaning
pain moaning
pornographic lust

the kind
some cokehead
got rich in los angeles
putting on videotape

i saw an angel
today

i only saw her
for a moment
from
the back

she was on a bike
alone
riding
on a busy street

her position
on the bike
displayed

the curve of
her hips
and the
roundness of
her ass

i didn’t notice
if she had
wings

but she certainly
had a halo

her blond hair
was pulled
up
in a disorganized
bun
threads of it
poking
into every dimension

as she rode
smoothly
into the sun
the penumbra
of light
coming through
that frayed knot
of golden
hair
showed a
heavenly
glow
around the back
of her head

and she looked
like a
renaissance church painting
before she was gone