Lorenzo Buford

Imaginary Poet

The Dead End Man

I didn't want a dead end man
but that is how it was going to be
with tonight's stranger.
I found him in an ad that read
"Man for No String Attachment."

He undressed; he was thirty.
His skin was pale,
his hair was shoulder length, dirty brown;
and he had a southern accent
though he lived in Los Angeles for ten years.

He hadn't found his film success
while recovering from being
an ex-sex addict;
and track marks are still on his arms.

He said the drug train had derailed;
and he only had a glass of wine
on special occasions;
and some of those medication
made him off balance
and slur his words.

He didn't want complications
because getting out of bed each day
was very taxing
and moving through crowds of people
was like jumping over cracks
so he wouldn't be possessed by fragmented people;
haunting the living

but he needed to be touched.

He found temporary sanity
inside someone else's space
though he didn't want to stay long
because he didn't want to pay rent
or become someone named "Occupant."

I was the fifth connection for the day.

He was off work, needed a distraction
and he talked; I feigned to listen.

We both had an itch that needed scratching.

Articles of clothing were dropped
like it was a dance;
but I couldn't understand the song;

but our emptiness needed to be filled
for both of us

and this was supposed
to be no contact with lips,

no sensuous kiss, no awakening a sleeping Beauty.

There was only a Beast in this encounter,
so it was like cracking open a cold one;

and there was no moving into each other's space
and we were riding the wave only to get the fix
of our addiction to the orgasm;

and to each other, we will become the Violated and the Violator.

He stretched across the bed
and asked me to kneel
as he created a temporal space
thinking he can rise above
the workings of the Machine;

but he carries the sorcery of the ground
where his life is regulated into categories;

and he couldn't remember my name.

I was just to be another face
floating between his legs;

and speaking the names
he left in my mouth
made me swallow memories
and carry other's pains
as if it was a cross;

and I thought
this is another dead end
since we are not consensual beliefs.

He wanted no strings attachment;

and I realize,

I don't want to be an idiot god
playing a flute between the spaces
between his head and legs;

and I didn't want
to latch on to his mist crawling visions;
or have his ghost in my mouth;
or have his wars in my head;
or have his anger scarring my flesh;
or his hatred of self
wounding my heart;

and I found myself

laying as a face in his desert
and he is dying tree
thinking he can root out the last few tears I have.

And I thought - close his legs
because the oil between his legs
is a holocaust of ecstasy and addiction;

and there is no freedom in the Machine.

I will not be a ground for him to tunnel and exploit.

I am walking down another road;
a bit winding, but there is no dead end;
just another horizon with possibilities.

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