On the pot-holed road from the Port
Authority Terminal the Newark Airport bus
sighs up and down as if moguling.
In my experience, motion of this kind
while sitting in a bus oftern increases
the size of the penis. It does now.
A mixed sign. In certain operas
the desire for sex and the allure of death
seem to be present just before or just after
each other but occasionally simultaneously.
Consider the love life of the prostate.
During love-making this gland, which is,
as doctors like to say, the size of a walnut,
and has very few pleasure fibers in it
but a great many for pain, tranmits
the sensation of pain with growing intensity,
until at last, when our walnut can no longer bear it,
the duct opens and semen burts out and gives
shuddering relief or ecstatic joy, as you like.
Climbing the Pulaski Skyway on a faulty
pneumatic suspension, the bus gasps
and blows and develops a bucking rhythm
the lets me imagine what the fuck-
ing of buses could be like. Minutes later
I find myself thinking the bus moves
like an antediluvian mammal
being shoved to its grave without first
having been fully persuaded its time is up.
Though not kept informed explicitly, the penis
instinctively senses this turn of thought, and shrinks.