Poems by Lexy Experiment

Each Drop is a Measure 

of the distance between desire and how much you dare. Slip to the top of a mountain  beside a thundercloud in Sundance to start the search, or did you start back home 

where an idea drifted in like fog rising at Hurricane Ridge, like steam roiling off Sol Duc  hot springs where if you swim to the hot spot in the middle and she meets you there, you  avert your eyes too quickly, like Kyoto 

or in Nagoya, or on a ship one full day south of Kagoshima where the foreign tongues  sound so sultry and you are naked, alone floating over that floor jet, legs spread wide  enough to feel the vibrations, 

but here you hear snatches that you recognize at least, govoryu po-Russki, and in Lava  Hot Springs you only rest and watch, spread your arms in the slippery water, slide your  toes between the one you know well and those you want to know more. You can feel the  currents but you haven’t learned yet how to follow them all the way down 

the way your river guide moves his rudders without even seeming to think about the  rapids; you are too acutely aware of the space around your body, you need someone to  grab you hard and tow you 

back to the Snake River sultry green where you walk the wide rocks along Idaho Falls in  broad daylight; the signs warn against surprising currents and yes, in some places you  could be seduced by the shallow only to find yourself pinned 

under a secret rock overhang. You hardly ever catch a full breath when you are thinking  about lust anyway, 

might as well be hiking downhill in the dark from the place you watched the sun set over  the Salmon River straddling a ridge so small you can see straight up and down the valley,  sweaty and scared; 

that path is slower than falling into a rabbit hole or out of a boat at Folly Bridge near  Oxford but faster than sitting still with your head spinning for weeks, wanting what’s in  Manhattan but not knowing what’s next. You never thought you'd need it so much, nor  that the pink waves of the Great Salt Lake and the white foam they froth during a stormy  night could seem like something you would want to climb into 

that you’d want to slide your knees wide, dig your palms into salt and take pictures from 

behind. Portland, Poky, poly, you lie in a rocky pool where two currents collide; the river  stings in cold water one way and if you push back against the moss you feel scalding on  your shoulder blades so instead all you do is lay yourself in the middle again, arch your  back 

feeling safe in the lukewarm. Cartographers know that not all paths connect the way  you’d expect, that some glaciers find a different way down every spring. You know 

that you can’t stand the discord but still, you must continue mapping these desires that  cannot be dissolved.

Anticipation of the Traveling Not-So-Slut 

A brown haired woman in Portland sent me a poem that began, 

at least your pimp has a name, a neck 

you could put your two good hands around. 

But I have neither of these things. 

++ 

I have not held N's throat like he has mine, 

have not asked anything 

about his name. 

I was afraid of my feelings, 

wanted to see him mostly in fragments, 

his way with words leaves me weak-kneed, 

I am 

dangling. 

++ 

I can’t ask for a name until I have his neck in Manhattan 

(or an airport, anywhere) 

can’t offer my own throat again 

until I have made a whole host of other things happen. 

+ Now + 

I don't crawl to N naked, blowing bubbles, 

making photos in the bath. 

The silence 

seduces me  

to wonder about wants again 

instead of why nots. 

+ Before November + 

+ When She Moves to New Zealand + 

When I trust my desire I want to kiss 

that brown haired beauty in Portland. 

I want to slide next to her on a park bench , 

meet without speaking,

bring each other something to read. 

Kiss her under the fall leaves. 

Then leave. 

+ When She, Like Art + 

Surely there is a kind of seduction Chris craves 

that I can’t offer. 

+ When I Remember + 

+ Nin Andrews + 

Choosing a poem for that park bench, in Portland, 

I think of marking my orgasms 

against her glossary* 

to count the time. 

* Except Kamikazee, Quotepart, and Ombre, please. 

+ After Our Second Date in May, + 

+ I Said November + 

I can’t measure my lust in months anymore, 

those fleeting last fall days in Manhattan 

could wander in and out with any kind of outcome. 

I’m too scared to wonder yet 

whether I could wrap my hands around any of N, 

wear a belt around my neck, 

wrap my mind around enough of my wants 

be a kick ass sexy woman who can submit. 

But I want to.

Lexy is an experiment. She is the alter ego for an east coast USA writer and woman of nonsense. According to Hogan Assessments, Lexy's main drivers are science, hedonism, and aesthetics; the Hogan also says she is high-risk because she’s mischievous and excitable. Twitter: @LexyExperiment