sometimes I write poetry

Sometimes when I'm in the right mood, I try my hand at poetry, writing about sex or the world around me. When I was in high school, I was madly in love with this particular English teacher (and is that ever a story I will have to tell sometime here) who encouraged me to continue writing after he said my work was promising. When I lived in Los Angeles, I submitted some poems for a local poetry festival and was invited to read the following, which is sort of based on a real experience that happened when I was working in Palm Springs:

your thumb is an invitation
jutting straight up
like an eager phallus
yet your thick, sun-browned shoulders
are the right invitation for me

my car slows on the embankment
you tumble into the seat
muscled stomach rippling as you sigh
your loose jeans gape at the waist
revealing a shadowed pelt below
another invitation

my mother's warning echoes in my memory
a hitchhiker is an invitation to trouble
you shoot me a wolf's grin
your too-pretty blue eyes glitter
a boy's flaw in a man's body

the sign reads, "rest stop -- this exit"
a surprise invitation
my turnsignal chirps like an eager bird
we still have not exchanged a word

parked behind weedy pepper trees
screaming with locusts in the apricot dusk
I sit astride you as you rise into me
my wetness an invitation
your words finally come now, but barely
"yes" "harder" "faster"

to encourage your roughness
I bite your thick arm
solid and veined like a tree limb
you like that invitation
and thrust harder
bringing me over my private precipice

you shoot inside of me
then lean back against the seat
breathing loudly, smiling smugly
yet you never kiss me

I drop you where you ask
at a shabby house in town
I do not know your name
nor do you know mine
to exchange such words now
would be an invitation