Stream of Impropriety

I'm going to take the good karma I've earned
by paying for my sandwich (when I could have
walked away from two counter people
who were too stoned to blink) and spend it
licking the sensitive surfaces of a stranger's flesh.

The stream of impropriety is fed from bedsprings
and the artesian coordinates
of pickup lines and the curves which converge
just under the hip pockets of some hungry stranger.
After a quick baptism, you'll discover
powers of persuasion you've never had before--
with a word, you'll be able
to distract the rivets in this pretty girl's jeans.

To a few dozen people living
in Northern Kentucky,
skinnydipping in Knob Creek
is a perfectly innocent pastime
on a muggy summer day.

She is not
one of those few dozen.

She's shy like a shotgun activist,
and she knows how to coax me to rut;
how to run lust along the edges of my tongue
and up into the base of my brain.

Her implications and innuendoes
touch my mind like a single curl of smoke-
at first barely perceived,
then snapping me to total focus
to find the source of the danger.

And that's it, slithering up my spine--
her fingernail slicing delicately
sending a flare—immediate, then broadening.
A path of voltage tracing every nerve,
marking out where the flash flood of sensation
will rip soon through the riverbed.