a rough full-contact love

I always seem to be craning my neck

in order to get a better view of life.

I always seem to be motioning my fingers

toward a destination unknown.

I always seem to be sticking out my tongue

in the middle of snowstorms whenever I

have a fever in order to lower my

body temperature by a couple of degrees.

I always seem to be hooking opposing index fingers

into the corners of my mouth

in an attempt to stretch my

cheeks beyond their limit.

I always seem to be on the verge of

something terrific like becoming employed again.

I always seem to be thinking up new ways of kissing;

I’ve perfected a technique whereby I follow through

by brushing up against your incisors with my

lower lip and flicking the nerve linked to your

throat muscle with the tip of my tongue.

I always seem to be mentioning your name

in mixed company while I’m in the middle

of introducing myself to strangers.

I always seem to be power walking

on tightropes made of egg shells

whenever I’m beating off around your bush.

I always seem to be going this-a-way,

that-a-way, and ending up in Piscataway and 

I always seem to be able to stop my love on a dime.