vixen under california sun

sing the summer above, the frail encounter
of roasted beef and a blonde cheerleader
over inflatable raft floating adrift
this is california

sing to me being the impromptu DP
fighting my boner to do the task
clearing the mind
if is at all possible

i take my shirt off while the stand-ins
awkwardly pose and raft overturns
it's so hot you wish them well
the blonde cheerleader is now naked

so here comes the stud
someone inside has kept him
still, his manhood, and oily his skin,
sound, lights, ok, we are rolling

sing, love the weather, love
the shine of her skin and love work
above all, drawing on the lust of millions
over the net, hidden in sordid peepholes

you could say it's all a setup
and bring your barthes inspired analysis
the sontag infused anger, the gonzo eye,
you could say so many things but this, too, is america

the poetry in motion of repeated penetration
despite whatever is fake in this frame, and the vixen
with the off-screen shyness taking it all and
then she's steaming not from the high california sun

sing the summer above and sing
'cause you are alive and the pool
reflecting the sky, the tripods, the script girl
and there is water, enough to wrap you; water


john b. reynolds (San Diego, CA, 1976)