I once wrote a misogynistic poem about a baby giraffe.
I haven’t been able to repeat that brilliance since.
I did write a Marxist poem about a meerkat though.
The masses shall overwhelm the few,
The lazy kings shall be dethroned!
Our claim to the Serengeti is renewed,
Unjust royal bloat forever bemoaned!
At home, leaning over the bathroom sink,
I'm sure that the gobs of toothpaste near the drain
represent a universal truth.
It’s a shame fluoride doesn’t rhyme with transcendental.
My professor is
quite adamant that Gilgamesh was homosexual,
but I’m staring at two emo kids pawing near the aisle.
I can’t decide if they’re in love
or just happy that they both have lip rings.
I’ve been single a long time,
and it’s time to start dating.
I walk into a coffee shop and smile
at the voluptuous girl with the dry wit.
"One of these days you might want to say hi to me,"
she says, her voice subtle as sex.
Does she dig me,
or just like the fact that I’m cute
and mostly harmless?
[2004]
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
I Ask Myself If I've Been In Love
Scribbled on a small slip of paper beneath some Yeats:
"Sometimes Red Tights don’t mean
that an insatiable appetite prowls
within their occupant (although it does),
sometimes all they are is a cry for bed,
a mother, a peace.
Which, in the end,
is all we look for in each other anyway." - JLA
Reader Response:
"She might as well have been
any woman in his life,
any small promise of fragrance and wit."
Now I’m staring at this piece of paper
covered in a feminine cursive
and it sits beside a High Life on my desk.
And to the left is a half-empty glass of warm merlot
and I’m fairly happy that these inanimate players
represent well this act of my life.
I just wonder though, if I am the beer can,
or if it’s the girl.
"Sometimes Red Tights don’t mean
that an insatiable appetite prowls
within their occupant (although it does),
sometimes all they are is a cry for bed,
a mother, a peace.
Which, in the end,
is all we look for in each other anyway." - JLA
Reader Response:
"She might as well have been
any woman in his life,
any small promise of fragrance and wit."
Now I’m staring at this piece of paper
covered in a feminine cursive
and it sits beside a High Life on my desk.
And to the left is a half-empty glass of warm merlot
and I’m fairly happy that these inanimate players
represent well this act of my life.
I just wonder though, if I am the beer can,
or if it’s the girl.
Her Scene
Frumpy and disheveled, she sits with a notebook;
Sighing at the window, she itches her puffy cheek.
She stares at the sidewalk, and,
for a moment,
is blissfully thoughtless.
She is a toggle
untouched.
Leaving specks, she peppers a page with her pen tip.
Bu-bop, BOP, bop.
Rain starts to spot the sidewalk a gritty shade of gray.
[June, 2005]
Sighing at the window, she itches her puffy cheek.
She stares at the sidewalk, and,
for a moment,
is blissfully thoughtless.
She is a toggle
untouched.
Leaving specks, she peppers a page with her pen tip.
Bu-bop, BOP, bop.
Rain starts to spot the sidewalk a gritty shade of gray.
[June, 2005]
Stumble Stunts
Back in Santa Cruz I stumbled around on a broken ankle
wondering if fuzzy-legged chicks ever
fell back in the closet and realized it was what they preferred.
Here in Sacramento I stumble about on a weary self-image,
wondering if self-affected hipster chicks ever
blink at a mirror, see the absurdity, and unrivet their faces.
[2006]
wondering if fuzzy-legged chicks ever
fell back in the closet and realized it was what they preferred.
Here in Sacramento I stumble about on a weary self-image,
wondering if self-affected hipster chicks ever
blink at a mirror, see the absurdity, and unrivet their faces.
[2006]
V.V.
Tall burlesque vixen
with LED flashlight eyes
and fatalist tendencies
sat beside me at the bar.
Her later trips to the restroom
revealed obliques inked
with hollow stars, a constellation
of ill-judgment and clumsily asserted
individuality.
My later trips
revealed Mr. Adams' effect
on my balance.
I spent most of the night hoping the speck in her
teeth was pepper and not decay.
Our second meeting's highlight was the disappearance
of the speck, and the return of her
star-crossed hips.
[April, 2009]
with LED flashlight eyes
and fatalist tendencies
sat beside me at the bar.
Her later trips to the restroom
revealed obliques inked
with hollow stars, a constellation
of ill-judgment and clumsily asserted
individuality.
My later trips
revealed Mr. Adams' effect
on my balance.
I spent most of the night hoping the speck in her
teeth was pepper and not decay.
Our second meeting's highlight was the disappearance
of the speck, and the return of her
star-crossed hips.
[April, 2009]
Healthcare
Make me a male nurse
so I can go to work in sneakers and
pale blue scrubs with
a tasteful V-neck,
so I can tell a woman what I do
and she'll be sure I'm sensitive to her needs,
so I don't have to tell her I'm a poet,
because that seems to say I'm sensitive to needs,
but usually my own.
[June, 2009]
so I can go to work in sneakers and
pale blue scrubs with
a tasteful V-neck,
so I can tell a woman what I do
and she'll be sure I'm sensitive to her needs,
so I don't have to tell her I'm a poet,
because that seems to say I'm sensitive to needs,
but usually my own.
[June, 2009]
Tangeled
We are tangled wires behind your televion,
made independent only through concerted effort and wiggle room.
We could unplug everything and start again,
but then we might miss our favorite shows.
Or, perhaps, we are Scrabble tiles,
jostled together in a felt beg,
our lettered faces indistinguishable to blind fingers.
More probably, we are elms in a grove,
two distinct collections of limbs and leaves,
discovering our roots nearly touch beneath the soil.
[June, 2009]
made independent only through concerted effort and wiggle room.
We could unplug everything and start again,
but then we might miss our favorite shows.
Or, perhaps, we are Scrabble tiles,
jostled together in a felt beg,
our lettered faces indistinguishable to blind fingers.
More probably, we are elms in a grove,
two distinct collections of limbs and leaves,
discovering our roots nearly touch beneath the soil.
[June, 2009]
North Station to Beverly Depot
A blurred factoryscape passes,
complexes of pipes and squat cylinders
painted in various shades of ugly.
Automobile carcasses rotting
besides a muddy bank emitting
a pervasive sense of decay.
Cornbread-crumbled sea walls pepper
beaches with ash black stones
below steel-boned bridges burnt orange with rust.
[May, 2009]
complexes of pipes and squat cylinders
painted in various shades of ugly.
Automobile carcasses rotting
besides a muddy bank emitting
a pervasive sense of decay.
Cornbread-crumbled sea walls pepper
beaches with ash black stones
below steel-boned bridges burnt orange with rust.
[May, 2009]
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