They Leave With Joy

To Santa Clara Street
My friend and I have gone
To offer our penises
For the girls in the brothel house
To take them and feed them.
The matchmaker Celestina
Who opened the door for us
Is called Plasencia de la Olla
Who gave a commanding voice:
-Girls, come to the living room!
They come skipping with joy
Girls who have started university
Bringing hope to our penises
Laden with anxiety.
We have chosen the two who walk best
And can tell they are hungry for men
Leaving the other three out.
Behind those two
We have reached the beds.
They have opened them
Showing us their fresh cunts
Telling us:
-These penises of yours
Are a very good thing
For they greatly adorn our lower bellies.
Now, naked, we’ve pulled down
Their panties with our penises
One pink, the other red
Both slightly stained.
They’ve taken our penises by the hand
Not knowing where they’re leading them.
They weren’t mistaken!
Because they’ve taken a quarter of our penises
Into their open vaginas.
An excellent radiance
We saw enter through the large and small lips
To the heaven of their vaginas
We enjoying eternal glory.
I don’t know about them. 
We didn’t look at them.
When we finished ejaculating
And Celestina finished cleaning us
With a dish sponge
She took us to the door saying:
-The whores need you to love.
Give them love, give them lots of love.
The whores need you to love.
In their cunts your freedom grows.

I’ve Pulled Some Hunky Guys in My Time

I spent a year
In South Texas.
I knew this guy
Who didn’t talk much,
His “y’all,” though:
Seven syllables too long.

Marine.
His gait
Should’ve been stiff,
But was music:
Red-dirt.

He wasn’t handsome.
I didn’t need handsome.
I, in fact,
Was the handsome.
His pecs were
The draw. 

He told me I was pretty.

What I wanted
Was a macho-manly adjective.
“Say that shit to your girlfriend!”
I’d snapped.

I didn’t want to know
That he had someone
At home.
But he shared it
Like she was nothing.

I thought about her,
Truly, a lot.
More than he did,
Maybe.

And I thought about her
All the time
When he gave me chlamydia.

That poor girl
I thought:
Does she know
About azithromycin,
Doxycycline,
Yoghurt with active cultures?

The tale I told myself, though,
Was that she was cheating, too.
Thus, Chlamydia trachomatis:
A teen on gap year
Bounced from genitalscape
To genitalscape,
Defiling native cultures.

It was a good story, that:
It precluded the possibility
Of him with another guy,
A younger guy,
A guy who didn’t snap
When he said “Pretty.”

“You’re gonna get dirty,”
He shrugged on the phone
“When you play in the mud.”

I’d called.
Calling, I felt,
Was intimate,
Appropriate,
Beseeming
When announcing
An STI.

“Fuck you, what mud?
I always douched!”
He chuckled:
“Takes a week to get clean.”

We did bang again,
Marine and I.
On day 8
Post-azithro.
No retest.

Listen: I was 28
In a new city (again)
Where I knew no one
(Again).

He wasn’t a talker,
But he stuck around.

Chlamydia is like that, too.

Fuck Haikus VI

Young men skateboarding
Sun is glinting in their eyes
I expose my cunt

Loaded and horny
They fuck me in the playground
Young wolves eat the deer

They rub their bulges
The hot sun blinks behind clouds
I’m begging on my knees

Cum slurping hot bitch
Crows caw in the willow trees
The boys fuck my throat

The bliss of young piss
Rain splashes the lily pond
The boys shower me

Spit roasting their bitch
Two eager crows chase a dove 
My mouth and ass burn

Two boys suck my tits
Swallows swerve in flight
A third eats my cunt

Happy with their bitch
The boys play ball in the spring
I still taste their spunk

Hole

The day I got drunk 
down in Jupiter 
with Tiger 
and Charles, we got into 
6 car crashes 
but the 3rd
didn’t count 
because it was one of those 
micro Italian cars
that look more like 
chrome footwear 
than something that can cause 
a high speed pile up.
The vikes 
are good,
the wheels and whites, 
percopop, tabs, dro, 
fluff, Apache, everything 
like a fire engine 
blaring 
through the 
cosmos 
Toot, TOOT
     TOOTSKI

The day I got drunk 
down in Jupiter 
with Tiger 
and Charles, some girl 
from the Cheetah Palm Club 
accused Tiger of rape,
said his cock looked 
like an armadillo 
or was it a hedgehog
I can’t remember… 
We threw cash 
at her 
gold 
mother of pearl
said see ya next week
the night falling 
now
like a putt 
that breaks both 
ways
South Ocean Blvd
firecracker palm trees
blowing rocks
I’m standing on the lips 
of a waterfront mansion
eating the pinkest sunset 
I’ve ever seen
white clawed
gin tight
betting on Jai alai
talking to a guy who smuggles 
alligators in golf bags
talking to a guy who loves cattle queens
dreams in rubber, 
Thai, Puerto Rican 
talking to Tarzan of the Loxahatchee
he has a competitive nut
a Tom Ford suit
a tie as slick 
as an eel

Charles is chatting up
a calendar Pin-Up,
he has a tongue like 
a flophouse
—fame rabies
more loot than Mel Fisher, 
he beat up 
twenty bluebirds
a black sparrow 
and a clerk 
at Fast Buck Freddie’s
that weekend 
in Key West,
then wrote 
a poem 
about a young 
lion 
that many say 
is his most 
vulnerable 
yet

Tiger has rehearsed 
his death
in many crashes,
slicing a limo 
packed with sugar mommas, 
hooking a Kenworth 
heavy-duty 
class 8 truck 
carrying a load 
of Coors 
across state line,
shanking a Subaru
of Hooters girls 
en route 
to the Magic City Casino
the male G-spot
revealed 
to be 
on the frenular delta
on the underside 
of the penis
where the head 
meets 
the shaft  
yeah, baby
that’s 
science
mashed potatoes 
get in the hole. 

Sir Rooster Ryder: A Modern Ballad

I rode upon my magic mount,
my trusty friend and pet—
a rooster big as any steed
or stallion ever met.

We journeyed ‘til my heavy head 
was falling on my chest,
a sign we’d need to find a bed 
to give ourselves a rest.

A stranger saw us passing by
and said he’d be our guide. 
He led us to a sign that read,
“You’re welcome here inside.”

I hitched my bird beside the bar
and sat upon a stool.
A lovely lady flashed a smile 
that makes a man a fool.

She grabbed my hand and sweetly purred,
“I know a nearby inn,”
and moments later, we were off 
to find a room for sin.

“This room we’ve got is cramped and small 
but big enough for fun,”
I’d started thinking when she turned 
and jabbed me with her gun.

I’d thought I’d pluck a supple hen,
a feather in my cap,
but made myself an easy mark
and stumbled in a trap.

She took my clothes and stole my watch
while tying up my hands. 
She tied them twice with knotted ropes 
as rough as burning sands. 

The lady left me all alone 
with bruised and broken frame 
and made a wound that’s even worse
than busted bones or shame.

The stranger and his lady friend—
those beasts with hearts of rock—
had planned the dirty grifting scheme 
to steal and ride my cock.

Now people hiss and mock my words
and say I’ve only lied
when told I had a giant cock 
to proudly stroke and ride.

Two Fingers Neat

I am about to crack open a bottle of Knob Creek
and do you know how much that put me back
even at the Duty Free Shop in Buffalo? I am
taking a page out of the Book of the Dead
and hoping nobody finds it missing. One
day A.I. will translate it for me and I will
be that guy. That guy who keeps looking
for his identity. Did you happen to see one
floating around the foyer or hanging
near the latrines? Regard him, this man
with thinned eyes, and make no sudden moves.
If all is true, then too bad for you should he 
take a fancy to your perfume or your
footwear. Even frontline German soldiers
during World War II knew the difference
between English chocolate and their own.
Or look at this bone in my wrist that I broke
many years ago, before the invention
of plaster casts and self-love hand lamps.
When I said all we needed was a lubricant,
I meant something sweeter than K-Y Jelly.
The cannons won’t boom without you
standing behind them and doing that thing
those dudes setting off those things do.
War never appealed to me, but now I 
must eat it for breakfast, lunch and dinner,
I say eat well, my friends, eat your fill
for tomorrow may never be the tomorrow
promised to you and me, as I swim 
from the neck of Lake Erie to its jewels.

Erica

Erica is flighty, not to say flirtatious,
known to her many friends as Erotica
and by friends, I really mean boyfriends.
Her secret cleft is no longer a secret.
Whenever she sees someone she fancies,
her not-so-secret cleft begins to secrete
with desire to get to know him carnally.
Erotica is always open for business,
as she’s wont to say and who can blame her?
Life is for living and what better way
to live it than spreadeagled on a bed
waiting for the sword of Damocles,
as she nicknamed the latest in her line
of muscular Mediterranean lovers.

Thanks Whore, Goddess of the Bushes

I met Gabriela, a female archangel
In the Casa de Campo
The best thing about Madrid
Near the Batán, where there’s a little square
Where they teach you how to bullfight.
I saw her and I loved her
Because of the abundance of everything she had.
I gave her five hundred pesetas, the old kind
And she took me to enjoy her completely
On all fours
Inside some flowering bushes
Holding my hand, saying:
-Pumps to the rabbit hutch 
Where about one hundred and twenty are.
From the top, where the cable car passes
That comes from the Paseo Pintor Rosales
To the Cerro Garabitas
They threw rose petals at us
And the occasional half-eaten sausage sandwich
While we made love doggy style.
I had run away with another classmate
From the Conciliar Seminary
Which is in Las Vistillas
With the desire to end the false celibacy.
This cock-eater was to my liking
She satisfied me, especially when she answered me
When I asked her:
-Are you working for a pimp?
-No, I’m here on my own.
Free Love!
Delighted with the raw, unprotected sex
And with having lost my virginity to this whore
So beautiful and sexy
I sang to her in the Gregorian chant style:
-“I praise your cunt
To which my cock has worked wonders.
How grand, amidst the bushes
The love that justifies us!
Thanks whore, goddess of the bushes.
Thank you for the illusion
Of having swallowed my cock
Before ejaculating inside your vagina.
Thank you for having placed my priest’s crown
My mystical virginity
Between the two holes of your ass.
Thank you, whore, for this hour.”
My friend, my soulmate
You who have been watching us fuck
Let us sing to the goddess Whore with joy!
The woman’s cunt is vast!
Her boundless charity
Even though we have to pay to enter
The heaven of her vagina!
As we were leaving
Saying goodbye with a kiss
I saw her wiping away with a silk handkerchief
The amorous remnants outside her vagina
Then, she would hold it up to her nose
To wipe away a green snot that was dripping from her
Very similar to sheep’s snot.
Also, right next to it
Inside another bush
My companion and I saw a jar
That contained colorful condoms
Filled and torn, overflowing.
And next to it, another jar
Where she would defecate if she needed to.
-Goodbye Whore, I shouted to her.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

What Stays

I wear each shitty tattoo
like a badge of honor.

The black panther,
the pinup girl,
the red rose,
the pair of dice.

I still don’t regret
a single one of them.

That wouldn’t do
any good anyway.

Because regret is like ink—
it never goes away either.

Jodhpurs and Clavicles 

There’s no telling where I end 
and you begin. All the kings men
are in the kitchen doing jujutsu with Jane. 
The afterparty contains hostile agents 
and bad news about the divine. 
Your lips are layovers in a foreign train station. 
Portals to a parallel reality
double back with dates and revisions.
Your friends call you the queen of Mars. 

Dodie remakes the world with ECM classics.
Our talk turns to jodhpurs and clavicles, 
the lilacs wilted in the vase on the table.   
There are the wounds we are given 
and the wounds that we choose. 
I must be bricked up alive for the fortress to stand.  
My dear ________________ , 
“Charlie don’t surf.”  
The TV is a UV burn.