The Kissing Book by Ariel Riveros

My finger-keys finger for keys in my pocket. Keyfingers in a door lock is the entry to exit. Search-stress encountered virus coating over my pocketing. Found property. My childhood sisters sing a teasing ditty "lost and found/lost and found" an overpromoted 70s telemovie. ×* 

*doing a search

I keep kissing the horror hunched bubble backplate recollection like a kissing book - covers snapping and white pages tongues wagging. the kissing book holds the names, address and phone numbers of recorded kisses on you or voicemail. 

The backplate back then was a metallic light blue backstab.  The horror of it. My first back kiss, the dropping of nuclear warheads with explosion. I was like a wall stencilling of me 15 years younger which includes  short pants innocence. Banksy could've done it. It was great. 

The everything that ever happened all happened. That's how it is now when I leave my pretzelled cervical juncture backplate. But the uxb, unwounding knife lunge, and book raises a smile to a cat my way which I'm not anyway.

Image of July 1970 (my birthday 10th) dedication on my copy of poet Francis Webb's Collected Work.