Snowball
by Kenneth Clark
Each time it's over I feel like I've huffed gasoline
and my head is doing that trick they do in the movies
where things move forward and backward at the same
time. Or I am Buddha vibrating at 10,000 RPM's
with hell hounds that bark in the background just behind
the soul—which for a few seconds gets clear enough
to believe in. Sometimes I want to kiss you before logic
and rational thought return to muddy this thing called lust.
And delirious I want the moment to drag its slickness
from your mouth back to mine, salt returned to the lick.
Kenneth grew up in Louisiana outside of New Orleans, but has lived in southeast Asia, and most of the southeastern United States.
His work has appeared in Night Train, Greatest Uncommon Denominator, The Story Garden, Equinox, Tabula Rasa, Poet's Cut, Poor Mojo's Almanac(k), Fried Chicken and Coffee, and Down Dirty Word.