Bleach-white with innocence, his little genie tries to convince him:
It's about what inside; stop listening to that scarlet-clad midget
But to his surprise, for once they are agreeing: It is all about what's inside
it takes but an iota of time for the message to reveal its naughty under-wiring;
it's about what's inside the shirt, is what's coming over the radio
Like a cat among the pigeons, that unholy thought has disheveled the inmates
of his incarceron of thoughts, and the more guards he sends in to remove it, the mightier
and more powerful it gets, re-spawning stealthily and it seems that
with every scintilla of his gaze, he wishes, he dreams, nay, he fantasizes,
that the light which has begun to streak through the panes and finally managed
to stop the tears streaming down from above, will fall at an angle to relieve his pains
at being forced to stare in the groggy light, because it really was groggy,
and he really was forced.

Suddenly, and with no forewarning;

Transmemberment.

Distracted from sending more guards by the light,
his body has conjoined synapse to synapse, conjugated cleft to receptor,
a sumptuously carnal marriage of awkward proportions, slithering, it
has him cursing the day he bought those stupid pants,
from stupid Sears just because they were on a stupid 50% off clearance, because
now they're bulging at the wrong seams, and it seems only a matter of time,
she'll notice and then—oh he cannot bear the thought—melancholia:
she'll look at me weird; or worse, get up. And, then all at once,
the earth trembles by the action of poor paving underneath,
and those wondrous orbs which have transfixed him become airborne,
dynamically mesmerizing him,
sensually tantalizing, agonizingly out of reach—in more senses than one—
but still, he's captivated.
By her breath that comes out just breathy enough, redolent of saccharine delights
by her argosy of waves with just the goldilocks quantity of red strands
so silken but yet so intense they encroach upon the divine while being slightly devilish
Erotic cannot do how he feels justice.
Eons have passed it seems, in minutes as you know there are many days.
He is now consumed by her, an ecstatic consumption, mind you;
his lustful gaping speaks volumes as to his impure thoughts
his decadent animal-like fashion at odds with the respectable, classy gentleman
who sat here five minutes ago,
Pleasure overrides his reasoning faculty as his one thought
is that her mouth nectar must taste like honeysuckle,
and a vision of tongue-on-tongue magic brings his hands to the places
where the heat has gone up a few thermal units.
And then,
he sees her face—no really sees her face,
and he is sure that had life had a soundtrack, a harp
would've been playing because he is sure she is an angel and not
one of those ones from Victoria's Secret, no, one of
those ones he read about in Bible class when he was a little tiddlywink
and he's taking, no, swallowing her face into his deep thoughts
so he can know what to ask God for when he sees him in heaven
because he knows his life has been one disappointment after another but
then—'do I know you?' she asks, and for once in his overcalculated life he
almost swoons in delirium, 'maybe' he replies in a voice that he thinks sounds
much too puerile, but the euphoria is much too gripping, because just looking was
enough, and then she laughs; looking was never enough really now, was it? Because
Venus has just laughed at his jest, as poor as it was,
the butterflies are now overwhelming, she's a kindred spirit too
and when he thinks that maybe God really does like him and maybe bliss is real,
his heart sinks when she stands up
Reverse-transmemberment as his happiness dissembles,
crumbling joy evident on the countenance of his usual stone-face
his sadness spills all over him, with colors that he can feel and others, he thinks,
can probably see, but he doesn't care anymore, because she's gone
a phantasm is happiness, he self-proclaims, Olympus is calling her back
she's done her virtuous act amongst the mortals, he says deep in his infatuation,
and his dour existence comes to the fore in his mind with all its gloom,
and he remembers why he's here anyway,
but, wait—he looks out of the panes in panic, in desperation
and a miracle
as the stars align and he
joyously realizes that
this too is where he gets off, and she asks him if he'll tell
her his name or just keep staring at her like an idiot as he
has done for the past ten minutes, but in his stupor he forgets his name
because all that matters is hers,
but he manages to remember how to use his feet and gets off
and in his thrall he realizes that he forget both his lines and his book,
and, frankly, he could not give two hoots, he thinks,
as he follows her, and he is at once reminded of
how different the day could've been had not waited at the Center
because through the dingy hell that everyone around him knows
heaven sent down one of its own in that most oddest of places,
and a question comes to his mind that he asked me to share:
Have you ever had a greater bus ride?