L = (mr2) should procure the desired result → if you know the math, variables & control elements, if you possess the values. Use the calculator on your phone. Download the graphing app.

Is the L for his lips like Brando’s, always quivering on the cusp of licked deliciousness? (Wait, is this anatomy / biology / chemistry? Too much study ≠ not enough feeling?) When he leaves, I taste / dream him all night.

Maybe I do not know my values. I make notes w/ a No. 2, smearing them over the edge
of pink & yellow post-its left on the desk, left like crumbs / tears (…who knows yet b/c sex is an amoeba, the same yet never, & he has to be home.)

Maybe I find it alchemy, that oldest science, absent code / ethics, every measurement in
winks & nods, shiny black hairs collected from his pillow, exhalations like breezes
captured in a jar ⇒ shaken to whispers that pour forth revelations.

I should gather my data, I know his mass, (86 kg × 187 cm,) feel it atop me & under me
& curled to my left, that density of his weekend thighs lumbering across the room & his
radius can only be described as a solid 8 ½. (Imagine the torque on that thing!)

But my r becomes a revolution, flares that burn / distract me when he comes back to this bed, when his r revises to gyration because he needs to swing his mass, because
his arms are like the well-twisted grapevines I swung to cross the August low creek to a
different lover patiently waiting on the other side, mud to his knees.

Why do I resist this change? Why do I apply force ↯ bad directions?

Why do I enter false values? (As if stars are mere ℉ flickers.)

Are they lies or mere inaccuracies? Home from third shift, breaking moonbeams while
undressing in the hall, he slides quietly under our sheets, into my longer (& thus older) L & smells like basic white bar soap. (The other ⇛ citrus & cedar.)

Neither knows I spin in place, accumulating momentum → refusing to move, to erase
my values & undo any operations I have completed in daylight / moonlight (that secret,
secret indigo) despite the increasing pain of a hot knife blade on my dry liar’s tongue.

I have become a mountainous sum = a mistake, a miscalculation between functions /
symbols / outcomes. Despite the cool dark of slumber, he seems content w/ blurring
below our gaussian line, as if the atmosphere will protect him from future impact.

Ben Kline

Ben Kline

Hailing from west Appalachian farm country, Ben Kline lives in Cincinnati, Ohio, drinking all the coffee and wine. His work is forthcoming or has recently appeared in The Birds We Piled Loosely, Figroot Press, Poetry Is Dead, Pretty Owl Poetry, (b)OINK, Umbrella Factory Magazine, Lotus-eater Magazine, Animal Literary Magazine, Impossible Archetype, Kettle Blue Review, and many more.
Ben Kline

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