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Father's Day makes me think about sex....
My question is this; where does it go in the daytime?
In my country, my America, where does sex go in the daytime?
At night I see it on television, cable and network.
I know it is in the bedrooms, car-seats and maybe even the kitchens of this fine land, but where does it go during the day?
I don’t see it in suits or in sales meetings.
In these meetings I see pretense and misery.
If there was a blade of honesty there might be some tears in every meeting.
Is it at the post office or the grocery store?
I don’t see it there.
Mechanized people as consumers, automatons behind the desk.
It is buried too deep.
Deep so that our children won’t see, deep so our wants won’t betray us in polite conversation.
Deep. So the creative self muted finds acceptable avenues of self-expression.
Buried but not dead.
But buried deep.
I promise you that.
A huger denied.
The eyes that never quite focus but train themselves on the ass of some pretty, young thing.
To live, I know where it should be, it should in our words and our glances. It should be implied in a light embrace with a pour amour. It should drip from side-ways conversation that can’t be overheard at Starbucks.
In our handshake exchanges, rubbed together dangerously like dried twigs near flammables.
It should live and be warmed by the light of day, heated by the sun’s light so it ignites with a snap as the comes up.
Imaged used by permission of Fotos De Karina - http://www.fotosdekarina.com/
