My Voodoo Baby
I lost my voodoo baby
When jostling through the parade of banners and war cries;
I lost her and she was abandoned for the tracks of human tanks.
The cotton filled baby, full and round to every limb,
Light, warm and sexy;
And oh explosive when a warp of the fabric skin is pulled out.
So delicate that she could not even sink as a reef but was only
A faint ache sobbing on the narrow web between my thumb and forefinger,
And lapping dry the moisture;
Her head craning out as if she could levitate in my hold.
I could always see her pouncing plaits, her rabbit ears, and the big curious eyes
That took in whatever reflected light,
And in a blink
She had eaten up and digested all the shapes.
But she never shut her mouth, always ready
To muster a stomach of grievances to accuse my possible negligence,
So that guilt would propel me around in the sea of people.
There is a negativity going on that even sunshine could not analyze
The “I” and “thou” between us.
I had never put her in my pocket, side or rear;
When my hands were busy with my lover, I’d hang her onto my backpack
And made sure she had views and fresh air.
Whenever my mind’s eye touches her like acupuncture,
Her voodoo force steamed like marijuana
Which was passed from mouth to mouth in the dimly lit bedroom.
I hid her blaze with the forepart of my sportcoat, but it was
Her grace of a self-indulgent aesthete that could not be shut in.
I’d fondle her shoulder blades from which wings should have grown,
With five fingers, one by one,
And then my palm would plaster and pause as if to warm and heal the scars,
In a carriage or a lift, or even in a half-covered zigzagging corridor or a promenade,
She would burst into giggles, not giving a damn about our manners.
Oh, my voodoo baby, my voodoo baby,
What have become of you?
I imagine you found a dry gutter to shelter yourself
From the litter of plastic bags and newspapers and used greaseproof paper flags,
Waiting sulkily, and eventually you were picked up and taken home,
His face tense with a suppressed excitement, while your memory was refreshed.
Was the warmth of another warmer than mine or was the difference just incomparable?
I say, every blot on your body is a dark spot on my lungs,
But I’ll muffle my cough;
I say, every wrinkle on your face is a crack on my heart,
But I won’t let it show on the forehead;
I say, we should not expect a wholesale harmony from this world,
As the pitch of laughter is not a good graduation of happiness,
As the erected ruler is not valid for love and endearment;
We know that sometimes an open palm may bear more weight than a quicksand beach.
I am saying this, perhaps because I have already lost you;
And losing your touch means that you might have turned dirty and mean;
Your mood ferments in moonlight into soap fantasy,
Like wild fantasies, popped in and out,
Leaving only several cold stars that nail the sky fast against a vast sheet of emptiness,
And your only way to feel your own weight---
To snake into my dreams like a wronged ghost,
Stone-faced, blood-eyed and tongued hanging long toward your breasts,
While I, trying to stay awake,
Except for listening to the monotonous cries from the rally,
Can do nothing.
July 4, 2008