Eunice Apia’s Neighborhood

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Forgive me for the joke I'm about to pass on: 

5 Word Challenge: bezerk, frisbeetarianism, staycation, shituation, fud

I’ve always been a religious dabbler, an X-Catholic, a Jack Mormon, 10 minute Buddhist, a three whirl Dervish, but, honestly, who would have thought the Frisbeetarians were right?  And now here I am in this shituation:  soul stuck on the roof, in permanent staycation.  I mean, I can handle these things.  I’m resourceful and I’ve spent many a summer perfecting the English on a disk toss. But what’s my poor mother going to do when she gets here, good Presbyterian woman that she is?  It’s going to bring her to her knees and not in prayer.  Everything she believed – fud.  Bezerk.  She’s going to go bezerk, disembodied up here for all eternity trying to learn the subtleties of extreme frisbee, converting to Frisbeetarianism, and finding her salvation was only slightly further than her attic.  

you're just guessing. put some bait on that hook

wait, let me. how strained into strange are you to receive 

my fonted letter, envelope with red foil, were you thinking page 

would be some instrumental act of word, not imagining scented 

from what the phallus pulled out on itself. do you recognize who?

and excuse me for almost greeting with:

put a stitch on is all I ask. 

me the khakied mime handing you back emperor's clothes 

slung over forearm, face with a sheepish gaze long as yours, 

bold as your turn away as I hold up a pause hand, 

fish from my jeans pockets your socks, and receive a gift 

of a blush, your swung step a little different. 

no two griefs or loves are identical twins. no flushes are straight heat 

of day when we share air of one room, my head tipped to the side as you enter

conversation with him. snowballing we shared him, each other. anvil torsos,

tongues, always so many pokers in the fire he is 

swung over the chicken flesh of sack, the curve of each hair teased back

by tender and tug until he welds air

feel throat and nose and eyeballs dry; all else slides

I tried to obscure gawk with rubbing a crick in my neck, pushing off 

the worst of the sweat with a blade of hand. that unconscious mind

that I can't take anywhere, can't live with or without. 

the hands that brush the hair from your eyes you only think

are your own, but mine echo. hair is not feathery but feathers, 

red, lift like desert sandstorm, will settle into the curve of my palm, 

my waist, we'll spend baths in the dry heat turning it to mud

from what pores we pore over, each follicle a litany.

were you confused at my outburst, my demanding 

that formal dress be required for tonight, each night. 

the blank of their faces filled with inprontu turning away

to make up a task to occupy themselves with    over there

sorry for the friends awkward amusement looking over you

the sound you made in the small of your throat

I check out the drape of cloth over your navel, pray for a sidestep under

incandescent pot light so there will be a rake of shape to

make out probability of accuracy of that lime juice dribbling

washboard draining to the burrito below. dreamesque rolled

flatbread around the softness of raspberry glans. crispy foreskin a phrase

and sensation gifting my waking lips, carried between nips.

my memories are invisible as wind but you see behavior, window glass 

bows, cheeks puffed with the gusts, what is overturned and spins past.

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