School Bus

I come to in the back of an old abandoned school bus, 
Broken down, with flat tires, in an overgrown field, 
In the midwest, 
in the summertime. 

Everything is still around us. 
The late afternoon is balmy
And the only thing moving, 
Are our lips, against one another’s. 
Waking up in the middle of a dream, 
I am swoony. 

You are youthful in the back of that school bus,
With those familiar brown pleather seats,
With pock-marked yellow foam peeking out from tears. 
You wear your boyhood in the way your legs have fallen open, 
Suggesting an eager pleasure rising beneath those oversized pants. 
And I can’t resist, but to reach down, 
to stroke the flesh dwelling beneath the fabric
Your inner thighs,
And tease your tender wanting.
So unselfconscious, and free, 
I almost feel like I’m stealing something. 
Your delight is uninhibited 
Pure, like magic emanating unfettered from your chest. 

You are ageless in this dream, 
Transcendent,
You flow between the manhood of the contemporary now, 
And some vernal time
Before we technically knew each other, 
when we were souls preeminent to each other’s lives, 
Already comingling and suckling soft genitals. 

 As I pull back I see, your boyish grin,
Shining out from beneath thick black hair, 
Fallen carelessly across your face
Satisfied, eager, enthralled…
Indulgent
So easy to please…
Adoring, and enraptured.
I feel like a thousand fireworks going off before your eyes. 

 Smells of youthhood fill my senses.
New, warm skin, 
New saliva, with a hint of your lunch.
Lovingly clumsy,
And precious. 

 Tectonic plates shift in the dream and you are grown now, 
And your groin is, 
distinctively less innocent. 
It growls and moans and wants more of me. 
You are unhurried,
Savoring the moments before I consummate your hunger, 
Confident in its immanent fulfillment
Confident in your effect on me. 
Now you simply attract, 
Emanating an assured magnetism.
You wait for my sure descent upon your lap, 
And to grab hold of my hips, to grind me against you.

 I go down on you in the back of that bus, 
tucked away in those last seats, hiding.
Your hips undulate and ride my mouth
Guilty pleasures meet in this suspended reality.  
Innocent touches meet shadow, 
young meets grown, 
simple meets savory. 

 Masses of liquid pour out my mouth for you
Drool soaks the fabric around your crotch. 
Pools upon the seats. 
Excitable skin jumps at the mouth
And butt cheeks slip and slide on pleather seats.  

I am the ringmaster of this here dream
And in my lucidity, 
I do things to you, my dream object.
So I smell your chest. 
Like a dog sniffs another
Uncannily, you ask, “What are you doing?”
With a mischievous, knowing smile
Which makes me unsure about whether you are really my object
Or have you incepted my dream?
“Go ahead, you can smell me,” you challenge
You challenge me to be as carnal as my uninhibition would be 
When I thought you were unawake. 

I survey your chest hair, 
Its unique distribution,
and the universe of a land and a peoples it harkens back to. 
There is an intimacy to almost knowing you
My psyche reaches now to know you when you were young, 
The sounds in your house, your mother tongue, 
your mom’s foods that made you,
And the roots from whence you sprung up from the earth.

I smell your genitals
Your now flaccid cock
Its loose skin
The way it lays, unthreateningly and innocent, 
and its dark brown folds. 
I reach to know it from when you were young and getting to know it yourself
Always wanting to touch it and hold it in your sleep, 
And its flapping about as you ran in gym class.

In the quantum dimensionality of the dreamtime,
I search for you when you were as ripe as a puckered fruit too
Before we hurt each other,
Before you were hardened and already distant upon meeting
And the only way to know you was from the outside, 
and by trying to worm my way in like a caterpillar. 

If I had known you when you were still the stalk of your fruit, 
Would we have been benevolent in love?
If I had known you from the inside when you were just pulp and still growing, 
When your sex was green…
pubescent wet dreams in the morning, 
and involuntary erections when I brush your face with a clover… 
If we had innocently been discovering how the world worked together, 
watching cloud formations in long, fecund grass, 
while our sex grew up through us like uncontrollable sprouts in the spring
…might things have been different? 

 Now, in the mystery of the dreamtime, 
You are chrysalis goo…
Shifting between ages and I wonder, 
whether we are time-traveling together, 
and changing history,
Or whether it’s just my imagination. 

Beyond the bus, 
Low light backlights dandelion seed heads
Illuminates auras of spider webs
Gnats dance upon thin air, 
And the fireflies will be out soon.