Poem: Pleasure, Not the Goal. My 3,000 Loving Arms are out and loving you.

For national Coming Out Day, a quick word on genitalia.

We all have some. The same clay, molded differently; cool fingers rolling, attaching, shaping.

This poem observes the  "subversive subtle sameness / of genitalic contours." 

O woman!  O man!  O lover!  

The spectrum of sexuality is broad, flexible and begs you to differ; it promises intensity in time and space; passion; betrayal; and an almost narcotic lassitude.





Pleasure, Not the Goal



Pleasure is the goal yet pleasure is not the goal.

Hand squeezing thigh is pleasure. Hand squeezing thigh

is not the goal.

Touch like knitted swaddling is warmy. Pleasure is not

the goal.

Invention can be pleasure yet not the goal.

Slight levitations of sensation humming in dimensions

almost near, always desirable, not wholly attainable

are pleasure, yet pleasure is not the goal.

Conclusions reached regarding subversive subtle sameness

of genitalic contours are grand yet not the goal.

A cry from the shadowy imagined on your body may not

be pleasure; regardless, pleasure is not the goal.

To join the infinite, pleasure? To revive the self, pleasure?

Ah, pleasure is the goal.

__________
Sarah Sarai. First published in The Future Is Happy, BlazeVOX [books], available through Amazon, Small Press Distribution, Bluestockings (Lower East Side), Unnameable Books (Brooklyn), Open Books (Seattle). Please do buy my book. Thanks!

Poem: No End Out of Mind; hyacinth. honeysuckle. Zig Zags. teenage agony.

I can't imagine much in the relatively simple world I come from there is nothing more exquisitely painful, and sometimes painful without the exquisite, than being a teenager.

I was of the unhappy variety, not unhappy about life itself; not nihilistic; but without the skill to work the hand I'd been dealt. And learning the body. My body.

Many of us lack that skill and hence lead interesting lives blessed, of course, by not being ordinary.

This afternoon I was at a poetry salon and read this poem. It's on my mind. I would love to reignite the spark behind this poem, written most likely in 2008. We'll see. Oh: "the goddess of 30,000 loving arms"? Another day, please. Thanks to Christine Hamm for being the spark to ignite today's reading of the poem.

No End Out of Mind

The honeysuckle pulls you so close
your mom sniffs your suspicious blouse
which doesn’t trust you or Mom
and is insane with love for
its woven fragrances.

Did you connect with the fluted and
tender bugle, with delirious darkblooming
jasmine, sweet bud of dew
and intoxication on your teenage lips
when you were a misfit rolling sex tight
in the Zig Zags?

Rose petals loosen from fingers
of the goddess of 30,000 loving arms
and fall into a separation of clouds,
heavens and genitalia.

There is no sorting genitalia,
fleshy playthings for Shiva’s lust.
All gods desire images.
The saints are graven and simple
with love of the Other.

You are a teenager dreaming,
both hands curled around nimbus
in delirium and pleasure at the brush of
a pink Persian hyacinth along your
thigh. Your besotted blouse
is proud of its place on your breasts
and their sharp cry for more.





from: The Future Is Happy (by Sarah Sarai), BlazeVOX [books].
Available through Small Press Distributon, Amazon, at bookstores including Bluestockings in Manhattan; Unnameable Books in Brooklyn; Open Books in Seattle.