From the verses of Shakespeare to the violence of Football, a soft hand on the nape of my neck to a rim's hard rattle after a dunk, the mute of Miles to the rhymes of Rakim, Hershey's chocolate to a garlic peppered, cedar-planked salmon, Joel Dias-Porter's thoughts scatter like grains of black sand across a wind-blown beach.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
So I lie down, eyes closed. Sin wears silky lingerie, a thin disguise for her thighs. She tangles my hair, singles out a strand, samples its aroma, bands it together.