Willie Smith

God on High

I’m on the make. I’m on the take – take any wench, take any drug, never any shit take. 

I lie on my back. On top the hill. Under the stars. Close the eyes. 

See that ceiling in Italy where God first gave man the finger. Zoom through the cupola. Eviscerate the atmosphere. Kick the ass outta holy space. Shoot clear to the Perseus Clusterfuck. 

I’m on the make, I’m on the take – five bills by midnight. On accounta I turn an eye to the sky. 

There shines Medusa, masked as Algol, the Ghoul, tonight in eclipse. She squats at her vanity, braiding snakes, while her galactic nails dry. Whereas Algol, at the bottom of her/his clockwork, dims. 

Damn sight ducky, hosting stars in the brain. Star maps spritz the cortex. I’m in the heavens called “Tex.” Work the door. Swamped with calls for directions.   

Dusa, my arm across her kidneys, palm cupping an alabaster hip, wears but sky-blue fishnet thi-hi’s. Halo dropped around the neck. Hummingbird breasts perched for takeoff. Curious nipples. Sapphire screwed into the navel. The snakes hiss and spit their approval. 

Across the floor alone together we waltz. 

She breaks the ice – before breaking the embrace – with a pick up the nose. I am severely pithed. A last thought squirms, spit missing the spittoon… 

Tonight I take my eyes out for a date. Take with two flutes. Dinner plus a show. Some blow, some dawdle, some more blow, several licks at the infinite, then we mate. 

Take me in your head to the ceiling. Make me high on that air touch. Take me – for I, too, am, see this finger? on the make.