P.G. THE FIRST

     The porcelain is cool & salubrious beneath her hot posterior
hemispheres.  As the rain begins to fall outside, a long hand - pale, 
with sharp pink nails, slides through the stank air.  She will now
print herself to paper, her yellow soul mapped out on thin flat
clouds.

	Yes, some (those boys (and only once that girl) who spoke
in small voices, spoke in small words, audible only by testosterone)
had compared her breasts to clouds.  They were twin arrow-headed
cumulous dreams that lit the stale nights.  Those round outgrowths
had come to define her at puberty (when her name became written in
capitals, because her chest exploded to fill the cup of her ever-larger
life.)  Those clouds had pillowed the heads of those blessed sleeping
boys (and only once that girl) as they lie like corpses in her arms.
She raised them up and she knocked them down.

	And now, she reaches down, tissue soft as lost erection between
her long fingers (much like her long legs, but microcosmic, and tipped
with sharp pink nails.)  She pushes that stained page on into the
echoing darkness.  And she makes an imprint of her self.

	Outside, the children bounce their little balls against the
concrete and cats of the alley howl their frustrated lust.
	She smiles and the Yellow Poem passes down into the ochaonic
Void.