- Published on Wednesday, 07 May 2014 15:33
by Harrison Parks
There is a sock store in downtown Tulsa called Picklesworth.
There are knee-high socks for women that can transform legs
into number-two pencils, with erasers that skirt up against thighs.
There is a booze-soaked lady in town named Pennyworth.
She has uncanny ways to dominate and subdue those who
dare approach her, with tattoos that skirt down her bosom.
There was a street in Tulsa named for a man of little worth.
He had all the money one could ever count and littered
the street in the riot, with black bodies that skirt with death.
When everything falls away before us, we cling to our worth.
The tighter we hold each other, the faster the world will
crumble before us, with soft lines we play beneath your skirt.
Your mind is lightning --
It branches through the night
And the brilliant coruscation
Courses out to me.
Your heart is throbbing --
It pulses through your legs
And the deepest, reddest blood
Carries you to me.
Your eyes are piercing --
They call out in cold hues
But your softest, gentle face
Betrays you to me.
Your hands are mending --
They graze against my cheek.
Those sweetest, tender shocks --
Lightning, you & me.