Your body could not
be put on a pedestal,
but it could be
wrapped in leather
and chains,
or robed in silk
or scented with oils
or ridden in style
on a boat on the Nile.
Your great gift
was just to be you.
Lovers would come
and preen best they could.
All they hoped
was what you knew.
You had it baby,
and knew what to do
to make men beg
and slither and crawl,
and when you did,
they loved you best of all.
You get me as hard as poetry
Not that poetry gives me an erection
But poetry is difficult
That’s a play on words I think
I get you all wet like a washed-up comedian
Except, one that’s all dirty
I read an article about yeast infections
So I’ll try to remember to wash my hands
One guy I know ate buffalo wings and then fingered his girlfriend
It was not a relationship-building experience
The best relationship I was in was probably still a nightmare for most people
The sex was good but you wouldn’t make a movie about it
If you did make a movie about it it would be an awkward indie film
Starring Philip Seymour Hoffman
As a rich grandmother in a Catholic dystopia
But I digress
I want to fuck you, so bad
The sex would not be bad but the desire is
The sex would not be bad the third time, I mean
The first two might be fumbling and unfulfilling
If you judge me based on the first or second time that we fuck then fuck you
It’s the third time that clinches the thing
If the third time’s bad then that’s real
That would be a mistake
Like the third time I fucked your mom
The first two could be chalked up to being drunk
The third time I hadn’t even sipped a beer
I’d rather fuck you than your mom
I’m sorry
We played Dungeons & Dragons too, me and your mom
She would literally be perfect if the sex worked
And she wasn’t hooked up to that machine
You are like the perfect version of your mom
No machine
You can learn D&D
Let’s find out if the sex works
Yeah, I know I’m old enough to be your father
But I like to think of myself as your dad’s cool friend
And yes, I did fuck your mom about twenty-two years ago
But I’ll take a paternity test, I’m not scared
You know your dad
He’s an asshole
He did not want me fucking your mom
Not even once let alone three times
Forget about that loser
I’m not him
Come on already
Let’s fuck
I had no idea what
She was talking about.
It works that way when
You don’t speak her language
And she doesn’t speak yours.
But she’s just mesmerizing
To watch, enchanting.
I smile when she smiles,
Scowl when she frowns.
Do a pensive head tilt
When it seems called upon.
I really only longed for
A chance at that body.
Her voluptuous shape
Demanded my attention.
We’re leaving the bar,
Presumably for her place.
I still had no idea what
She was going on about.
I just hoped she wasn’t
Talking about surprises
Like us comparing dicks.
I’d rather lick the dog crap
off your shoe
than wait in line for brunch
I’d savor it, too,
the pulverized bits of chicken bone
the re-digested cat poop
knowing I’ve avoided
that line around the block!
But, as a busboy,
I have a unique perspective
I’m also a foodie
but instead of pancakes
I’m a connoisseur of the bodega watermelon
I spend all my extra money on them
“Better not be mushy!!!”
“Claro! New crop today!”
They puzzle over me,
the man in dirty chef pants
spending $100s on melons
(My secret is to forego toilet paper
How? I use a sponge instead,
I rinse it twice, trés francais!)
In my tiny hotel room
I’ll cleave one down the middle
and devour its very heart
the juice dribbling down my chin
I love a good liquor store watermelon
and I love there is never
a line to get one,
no cackling, selfie taking
waffle wafflers, “I’ll do
the million dollar bacon!”
Though that’s not to say
I don’t take my job seriously
I’m an excellent busboy
if I do say so myself
“Look at him!” they gush,
“the work ethic!!! Why,
he even brings
his own sponge!”
Endless patience
of a vulture
in the desert
without eyes
for mercy.
Following me,
he swoops down
to whisper to me
crazy fortunes
and peyote
truths.
Death comes
when your path
is lost or denied
or your car
in the desert
gives up all ghosts.
You walk
across nothing
but endless sand
sweating
with an empty
gas can.
Various Hells
panting reddish skies
its flames
lick your face,
heat ticking
stolen time left
with your number plain…
And the vulture
waiting to sing
to your
last breath.
He didn’t pass on.
He’s dead.
It wasn’t an unfortunate accident
involving a sharp object.
I stabbed him with an ice pick.
Nor does he look
so peaceful in the coffin.
His face is a frozen scream.
True, he is going to a better place.
Anywhere would be
when you’ve been living in a trailer.
Such obscurity as to how these monstrous
obstacles land in my lap
must have been an awful wretch – the me before me
as they say souls are recycled
The last broken
busted Goliath in my path
shut me down
almost took me
like a cancer
tsk tsk…..what to do with this behemoth
y’all know I’m gonna invite it in
have a chat
probably sleep with it
maybe keep it around
for a bit
every coil it wraps around my wrist
pulls me closer to its poison
I want it so
Later
bored out of my skull
dump it out there
cuz I’m done with its menace
place it strategically along the way
for some other sad and sorry sack
to pick up
where I left off
i have yet to love where i live
almost 52
& never been really home
five decades of lostness
the wine helped
i looked thru dark red lenses
& felt better
but i was still a stranger
w/ out a real home
i often felt like i was loitering
in my own room
wherever it was
as a boy i’d walk the streets
looking in windows
everyone else seemed home
pushed in at brown tables
reclining in green chairs
standing at the sink
holding up a yellow plate
when i got older i’d gaze at paintings
of cafes
& the patrons seemed more
at home than i ever was
i’d look in hotel lobbies
in vestibules
into plate glass windows
full of beads of rain
like i had a thousand eyes
but nothing
who put me here ?
why?
even my mother’s golden kitchen
didn’t quite seem right
all those rooms & people
& walls & beams
& doors
& sinks
yet no home
tonight i cross my legs in this strange bed
in this strange room
on this strange avenue
in this strange town
& think the graveyards i stroll in feel more like home
the starlight feels more like home
the bluebirds feel more like home
& you, goddamn it, you, wherever the hell you are
Like a full-service gas station
or postal service workers
displaced, racing to Staples retail
for employment against the rules of labor,
poets are out of business nowadays, you know.
Who carries a loose change in their pockets?
Who tosses loose coins in their car ashtray anymore?
iPhones, smartphones, life is a video camera
ready to shoot, destroy, and expose.
No one reads poets anymore.
No one thumbs through the yellow pages anymore.
Who has sex in the back seat of their car anymore,
just naked shots passed around online?
Streetwalkers, bleach blonde whores,
cosmetic plastic altered faces in the neon night;
they don’t bother to pick pennies
or quarters off the streets anymore.
The days of surprise candy bags for a nickel
pennies lying on the countertop for
Tar Babies, Strawberry Licorice Laces
(2 for a penny), Wax Lips, Pixie Sticks,
Good & Plenty are no more.
Everyone is a dead-end player; he dies with time.
Monster technology destroys crump fragments of culture.
Old age is a passive slut; engaging old age
conversations idle to a whisper and sleep alone.
Matchbox, hand-rolled cigarettes,
serrated, slimmed down, and gone.
Time is a broken stopwatch gone by.
Life is a defunct full-service gas station.
Poets are out of business nowadays.
Cleaning up the mess
left behind
by someone,
possibly even me.
It’s hard to remember
what happens
in the strangeness
of night.
I take my time,
make porcelain shine,
while doing what must
be done,
putting all the new ideas
that arrive in my head
into the movements
of the brush.
It is all art
if you want to see it
that way,
everything you do.
Same as with
the old monks
who viewed
all actions
as a form of prayer.
The results from
this morning’s efforts
may be as good
or better
than anything else
I have done
or could possibly do,
and I may have
saved the world
in the process
without ever
meaning to.
