From the trunk that holds his jaw,
A tunnel of a place: moist, fleshy-pink
Juncture wherein a voice, not just in any chord,
But his voz, emanates, and it is heard, here, these
Intonations, this warm glaze of pronunciations that
Like a fist can grasp my far width
In two quick grips, motions unlike any other gesture
or twitch I’ve come to know from a vato.
Saliva, and the entire circumference of it is, herein,
Surrounded magnificently, deeply; the soft muscle
I meet, that muscle I pound and punch, squeezing,
Teasing, and I am at the slick brink of the muscle’s own
dark paradise. Huffing. Huffing.
An influx, my nut. Jawbone protrusions,
Melodies from our good times ensue.