Three Girls A Comin

 

 

Three Girls A Comin'

by David Tucker

 

 

She weighed 192 pounds,
her ankles
oozed over her shoes.
She had facial hair
and butt hair
but when I came,
her orgasm
rushed across the room
to dance with mine.
Two stars
from a 40s movie
gliding across the terrace
slender,
rich
privileged.

 


She pouted,
she talked and talked
about her problems,
gifted artist,
drank too much,
didnít like my dog,
didnít like her self.
It was a downer
to be around her
but one night
she bit my neck,
cried out
and opened to me
a quiet universe
so vast,
so tranquil
I wanted to
linger there
an eternity
or
two.

She was skinny,
flat-chested
and quoted Nietzsche.
Carried a tongue
like a leather whip
to snap
the bourgeoisie
and
people who cry at movies.
Her skull
housed a 10,000 watt
brain.
She frightened men,
but one night
she spread her legs
and thrust her hips
so sweet,
I was propelled
into the sky
through a hole in Orionís belt
and out to the
distant explosion
of a galactic climax.

And now,
standing on the peak
of my accumulated years
I lay down
the guilt
about my need
to grab,
the fat,
the pout,
the leather whip.
I pick up the flags
of my memory
and
celebrate
the dance,
a quiet universe
and
my trip
through the hole
in Orionís belt.
 

 


 

David Tucker has been a cowboy, a truck driver, a poet, an executive, a ditch digger, a novelist, a cheat, a dish washer, a builder, a hay buck. He has been wealthy, homeless, a football star, a playwright, a carpenter, a coward, an organic farmer, a fraternity boy, a hippie, a bus boy, a developer, a baseball prodigy, a brick layer, a fruit picker, a thief and much, much more.

He has had lots of wives, lots of lovers, lots of children, lots of grandchildren, lots of friends, lots of enemies, lots of heartbreak, one healing consort, and lots of ecstatic joy.
He has been a civil rights worker, a cult leader, a peace activist, a Buddhist, a Jew, a hero, a labor organizer, a Spiritual leader, a philanderer, a community builder, a Muslim, a Christian, a dreamer, a rebel, and his heart pants from the steep climb closer and closer to the face of God.

And across all these threads, his mind flicks back and forth, back and forth, and little by little patterns emerge: the poems and the novels about his quest for the secret, about his joy of existence, about his jubilation over the deep things of sex, about all the mystery that arises and takes shape at the point of genesis where his pick strikes the rock of illusion, and his true self emerges.
 


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