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April
Lindner
reads
Girl
in Real Audio
format.
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Plug her in, she’s yours, twenty-four/seven,
the girl who glows and beckons from your screen.
Unfurling like a one-armed bandit’s jackpot,
her body parts skirl past, bathed in blue light,
as lush as plums or cherries or split melon.
The airy tits of one girl float like clouds
above another’s mega-legs, an ass
spliced from yet a third, these random fragments
assembled into woman by your eye,
real as a model airplane. If she speaks,
her come-on lines are scripted. If she’s wrapped,
she’s easy to unwrap; between her skin
and your parched lips nothing but convex glass.
Smiling is her job. She knows you want her
because who wouldn’t? Hell, I want her too
or want to be her, sometimes, in the buzz
after I’ve stared too long, my flesh exhausted
by its own weight, my skin’s dull tendency
to slough off into dust, the daily tug
toward obsolescence. I would hone my legs down—
they’re all wrong—inject my lips with honey,
and paint my smile white as the Parthenon.
Beauty is truth, truth beauty—that is all?
No, beauty is the lie we’d carve and starve for.
We’d suck it till the juice ran down our arms,
or live inside it like a suit of armor—
if only that were possible. Instead
we lie here, shipwrecked by her ceaseless motion.
Reaching for her prow, we catch her wake.
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