opera diva from right here in (Townville? San Creola? Duckburg?),
brings to our assignation--of all things--a mix tape
which she whips out of her boho bag while flicking clips out of her hair
as if she were some sort of many-armed devil-goddess.
What does a devil-goddess play,
you might ask,
on *my* player,
without any clothes on or clips in her hair?
Cha cha mostly. A little reggae.
How, you might further ask,
can an opera diva be deaf?
She isn't, in any strict sense.
Her detractors--talentless tailor's dummies eaten up with envy--
call her Deaf Jensine because she ignores
their very existence,
and breezes by with her nose in the air and, at most,
a "fuck you" on her lips.
Tonight, we're going to try this goo that warms you where it counts,
so they said at the product party, anyway.
Jensine wants to try it on me first.
Moving on hands and knees above me on the bed,
she looks like rain looks to the parched,
like a black-haired many-armed devil-goddess looks
to such as me.
"I love you," I say, like a perfect dolt.
"Fuck you," she says matter-of-factly, and starts doing what she does,
which she does very well.
Deaf Jensine says for me to shut up for once in my life,
then communicates digitally and in her own remarkable tongue.
When I come back from (Townville? Nirvana? Mars?),
I'm afraid I may have said all sorts of things,
but it's fine, who cares?
Jensine can't hear me anyway.
a mixed up mess of wanton desire for Corey at Real Toads!