Michelangelo's statue of David,
Has a body that many have crave'd
But getting a bone
For a guy made of stone
Is something that's really deprave'd
Every horse has a really big phallus
But they're twenty times larger in Dallas
When a horse walks around
Its dick drags on the ground
Until it develops a callous
Renee's giant breasts wouldn't let her
Fit into a regular sweater
So she cut two big holes
For her large areole's
And then after that she felt better.
At first Jack was weak in the knees
When he had an affair with Louise
He was filled with desire
And his heart was afire
But now it just burns when he pees.
Mr. Dimple was destined for porn
He was blessed with a fourteen inch horn
Though the ladies would quake
When he unrolled his snake
He would say, "That's the way I was born!"
A magician who thought he was slick
Went up to an innocent chick
He said, "Baby, come here,
Watch my dick disappear."
She thought that was an excellent trick.
You know that I'd bet my last nickel
That the long arctic winters are fickle
So a polar bear's hair
Is the thickest down there
So he doesn't end up with a dick-sicle.
The large hairless scrotum of Davey
Was quite a surprise for his lady
It gave her a start
When his legs came apart
Cause she thought he was having a baby
I know of this lady, Lucille
Who has twenty-nine boobies to feel
Plus, her mouth is replaced
By a twat on her face
So I guess you could say she's ideal
In Virgina a lot of the misters
Will have intercourse with their sisters
They believe if a man
Goes outside of his clan
That his penis may break out in blisters
Bill's sweetheart was late getting in
And she wore a small secretive grin
Then he put in his thumb
And pulled out a plumb
And cried, "Darling, where have you been?"
Each morning Mike's wife always begs
That he go down and lick 'tween her legs
But he doesn't mind
He says yes every time
He prefers it to bacon and eggs.
Mort met a girl who was shrewish
She ran off when their love was still newish
He didn't realize
She abhorred his small size
He thought it was cause he was Jewish.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Untitled
I was sitting in the front room at Alex’s today, happier
Than I’ve been in a long time with the sun
Creeping in through four windows
And high ceilings and a guitar
In a chair and an oriental throw rug
On the bare floor
Billie Holiday was, and I was. . .
Sitting on the sofa reading and waiting for
Alex to get out of the shower.
A deaf and semi-insane but
Well-meaning man was
In the kitchen
Clanking, Crashing dishes and
Shuffling sandy across the floor.
Than I’ve been in a long time with the sun
Creeping in through four windows
And high ceilings and a guitar
In a chair and an oriental throw rug
On the bare floor
Billie Holiday was, and I was. . .
Sitting on the sofa reading and waiting for
Alex to get out of the shower.
A deaf and semi-insane but
Well-meaning man was
In the kitchen
Clanking, Crashing dishes and
Shuffling sandy across the floor.
Goodbye in a Minor Chord
A satyr minus horns,
A rose without her thorns,
A poor man’s son,
The obvious one,
Homogenized and hung.
The dog-woman grunts,
“Ambivalent cunts,
La Loba will heal,
Whomever you steal.
To justify mythos,
To murder the cantos,
Of surrogate dreams,
Of ant-ridden beams.”
I could tell you a story,
A tale made of teeth.
A yarn that unravels,
Like a drunk Christmas wreath,
Of bitter psychosis,
That stalks like a cat,
Of feeling ridiculous,
Stupid and fat.
But if you know a bank,
Where the wild thyme grows,
Then I want you to do it.
I want you to go.
A rose without her thorns,
A poor man’s son,
The obvious one,
Homogenized and hung.
The dog-woman grunts,
“Ambivalent cunts,
La Loba will heal,
Whomever you steal.
To justify mythos,
To murder the cantos,
Of surrogate dreams,
Of ant-ridden beams.”
I could tell you a story,
A tale made of teeth.
A yarn that unravels,
Like a drunk Christmas wreath,
Of bitter psychosis,
That stalks like a cat,
Of feeling ridiculous,
Stupid and fat.
But if you know a bank,
Where the wild thyme grows,
Then I want you to do it.
I want you to go.
Poet's Creed
I will not make pants or pomp or politics priority
I will kiss dance in a trance or midmorning and make love
Like a goddamned rocket taking off for nowhere.
I will pin my muse someday in the center of the ring
Just to tickle her between her legs with a feather
And laugh, rakishly running my hands through my hair.
These things I swear.
These things I swear, by the eerie glow of infomercials
Flickering in the 2:00 A.M. through the haze of my drunkenness.
These things I swear.
Because I dare to swear.
I will find time to throw fruit at government buildings,
Find windows to look through
And stare
For hours.
Because I dare to swear,
By the ashes of Neal, Jack, and Allen,
And all things holy and un,
That I will care,
For dogs and pot and pornography
More than the president.
These things I swear,
By my own wild hair,
And by my bleeding fucking heart.
I will kiss dance in a trance or midmorning and make love
Like a goddamned rocket taking off for nowhere.
I will pin my muse someday in the center of the ring
Just to tickle her between her legs with a feather
And laugh, rakishly running my hands through my hair.
These things I swear.
These things I swear, by the eerie glow of infomercials
Flickering in the 2:00 A.M. through the haze of my drunkenness.
These things I swear.
Because I dare to swear.
I will find time to throw fruit at government buildings,
Find windows to look through
And stare
For hours.
Because I dare to swear,
By the ashes of Neal, Jack, and Allen,
And all things holy and un,
That I will care,
For dogs and pot and pornography
More than the president.
These things I swear,
By my own wild hair,
And by my bleeding fucking heart.
On Being Fluent in Iambic Pentameter
To speak the tongue of sages comes in handy,
Addressing cars and couches full of kings,
It keeps one’s grave reproaches sounding dandy,
Makes one who’d scream seem more like those who sing.
But commoners ignore a merry measure,
Are quick to point their fingers at the poet,
Who’d exploit their many miseries for pleasure,
And be fool enough to think they wouldn’t know it.
A rhythmic poem’s a thing that’s rarely risky,
For flawless beats a meaning does disdain.
The beauty of the awful shock of whiskey,
Will override the beating of the rain.
Take wit to heart and meter to the head,
A poem is done that’s said what should be said.
Addressing cars and couches full of kings,
It keeps one’s grave reproaches sounding dandy,
Makes one who’d scream seem more like those who sing.
But commoners ignore a merry measure,
Are quick to point their fingers at the poet,
Who’d exploit their many miseries for pleasure,
And be fool enough to think they wouldn’t know it.
A rhythmic poem’s a thing that’s rarely risky,
For flawless beats a meaning does disdain.
The beauty of the awful shock of whiskey,
Will override the beating of the rain.
Take wit to heart and meter to the head,
A poem is done that’s said what should be said.
The Poet's Wife
I have music rotting inside of me
Things I’ve never said eating holes in my teeth.
Truth not expressed turned inward to become
Something worse than a lie.
Someday you’ll be waiting for me
And you’ll look past your nose onto an empty horizon.
I imagine that you’ll miss another face to talk into.
But you will have lost me,
And art to last ages crouching towards becoming.
Things I’ve never said eating holes in my teeth.
Truth not expressed turned inward to become
Something worse than a lie.
Someday you’ll be waiting for me
And you’ll look past your nose onto an empty horizon.
I imagine that you’ll miss another face to talk into.
But you will have lost me,
And art to last ages crouching towards becoming.
Pool Party
He’d slipped her the note in study hall. He sat in the row behind her. “Party Saturday night at my house,” it had said, “wear your bathing suit.” Her face got hotter as she read it. She could feel the hair on her legs bristle against the insides of her pant legs as she stared at the awkward curves of his penmanship. A secret, thrilling vibration rose up off of his writing. A boy’s writing. It was meant for her.
Patty slipped the note into her purse and it burned there, an ember of confidence, throughout the rest of the day. She almost felt her classmates might see the glow coming through the leather. A boy’s writing.
In the girl’s restroom she considered her reflection. Her full face, slight mustache, heavy brows. Here was a face that could be loved. A face that promised more than the sum of its parts, apparently. Wear your bathing suit. Her hands fell to smooth her jeans down the sides of her thighs and she was not in the least perturbed by their relative width. Not everyone is born thin, long, smooth like the ones who usually got invited to parties, passed notes. Girls like her were starting to come into fashion now. She turned her head slightly to the right and lowered the lids of her eyes. “Thank you for inviting me,” she whispered, “you have a lovely house.”
“Thank you,” she closed her locker.
“Thank you,” she walked out the doors of her high school squinting at the sunlight. Early June. Groups of girls huddled together in the parking lot smoking cigarettes. One girl was riding a boys back, laughing. “Thank you so much for inviting me.”
“Your house is lovely,” her bus was waiting at the back of the line.
“It’s such a lovely house,” her seat was waiting at the end of the aisle.
She looked at the window, at the houses moving by. Light blue, white, pale yellow, light blue, pale yellow. The colors of the houses were nothing. Party. Saturday. Night.
This was Thursday afternoon. The sun bathed her front lawn with possibility, with the warm energy of countless possible scenarios. She looked down at her wide feet, sweating on cheap flip-flops. These were the flip-flops of a person with a Saturday night. A Saturday night at my house. These were the flip-flops of a person who has been told to wear her bathing suit. She listened gleefully to the soles slapping up the steps. Par. Ty. Par. Ty. Par. Ty.
Glancing around her bedroom she was touched by the cheeriness of objects, though she lacked the capacity to name the things she saw. A shining thing here, a frilly thing here. There was only room for bathing suit. It was the only noun that registered now. Bathing suit blazed in her mind’s eye. Its carnival colored lycra hung there at the center of her thoughts, dripping chlorinated water.
It was Chinese takeout for dinner. Her fortune cookie said, “Your deepest desire reveals your nature.” She stifled a squeal. Later the in the steam of the bathroom mirror she remembered. Her true nature stared back at her. . .a swimmer at a party, mingling with boys, opening her eyes underwater, swimming between legs, brushing up against other wet bodies. The party made her delicious to herself. She blew a kiss at her reflection.
That night her father turned the bedroom knob and more darkness spilled in through the crack in the door. She clenched her eyes and her inhaling and exhaling became a rapid, whispered prayer: partysaturdaynightatmyhousebringyourbathingsuit, partysaturdaynightatmyhousebringyourbathingsuit.
O The Day. O the Hallowed Day it came. O how the essence of Saturday struck her when first she opened her eyes. Gazing downwards her stomach appeared flatter than before.
Shaving her legs was a holy rite. She tapped the razor against the shower wall with an invocation, “Saturday night.”
She was standing on the front walk now. The party lie just beyond the house, she need only walk through. She felt a stifling heat in her groin that rose up to her jaw line as she stared at the front door. Time had slowed and the honey of June was oozing out of the atmosphere, out of the flowers. The door swung open.
“Oh! You’re here!” It was a male voice. She extended her hand, lowered the lids of her eyes.
Behind her she heard, “Here we are!” And two taller girls brushed past her into the womb of the house.
She trailed behind them, entranced. Through the sliding glass doors she could see the sunlight glinting off the pool. The surface of the water shone like a beacon.
She moved toward it as no one watched. She removed the t-shirt she had so carefully chosen hours before, kicked off a new pair of flip-flops, shimmied out of cut-off shorts.
She stepped off the side of the pool. An enormous splash. Many pairs of eyes on the water at the place she’d gone under.
One girl near the potato chips muttered, “cow.”
Under the water all was silence as she reveled alone in Saturday night. Opening her eyes she saw the long white legs of others. She let the air out of her lungs in a long bubbling sigh and rose to the surface. Awkwardly she climbed up out of the luminous blue rectangle.
As reality closed back in around her, she started to dry off in the heat of the night. Carefully dressing again, she walked back out through the front door of the house with a wet bottom.
Back in bed she stared in wonderment at the ceiling. The best party ever.
Patty slipped the note into her purse and it burned there, an ember of confidence, throughout the rest of the day. She almost felt her classmates might see the glow coming through the leather. A boy’s writing.
In the girl’s restroom she considered her reflection. Her full face, slight mustache, heavy brows. Here was a face that could be loved. A face that promised more than the sum of its parts, apparently. Wear your bathing suit. Her hands fell to smooth her jeans down the sides of her thighs and she was not in the least perturbed by their relative width. Not everyone is born thin, long, smooth like the ones who usually got invited to parties, passed notes. Girls like her were starting to come into fashion now. She turned her head slightly to the right and lowered the lids of her eyes. “Thank you for inviting me,” she whispered, “you have a lovely house.”
“Thank you,” she closed her locker.
“Thank you,” she walked out the doors of her high school squinting at the sunlight. Early June. Groups of girls huddled together in the parking lot smoking cigarettes. One girl was riding a boys back, laughing. “Thank you so much for inviting me.”
“Your house is lovely,” her bus was waiting at the back of the line.
“It’s such a lovely house,” her seat was waiting at the end of the aisle.
She looked at the window, at the houses moving by. Light blue, white, pale yellow, light blue, pale yellow. The colors of the houses were nothing. Party. Saturday. Night.
This was Thursday afternoon. The sun bathed her front lawn with possibility, with the warm energy of countless possible scenarios. She looked down at her wide feet, sweating on cheap flip-flops. These were the flip-flops of a person with a Saturday night. A Saturday night at my house. These were the flip-flops of a person who has been told to wear her bathing suit. She listened gleefully to the soles slapping up the steps. Par. Ty. Par. Ty. Par. Ty.
Glancing around her bedroom she was touched by the cheeriness of objects, though she lacked the capacity to name the things she saw. A shining thing here, a frilly thing here. There was only room for bathing suit. It was the only noun that registered now. Bathing suit blazed in her mind’s eye. Its carnival colored lycra hung there at the center of her thoughts, dripping chlorinated water.
It was Chinese takeout for dinner. Her fortune cookie said, “Your deepest desire reveals your nature.” She stifled a squeal. Later the in the steam of the bathroom mirror she remembered. Her true nature stared back at her. . .a swimmer at a party, mingling with boys, opening her eyes underwater, swimming between legs, brushing up against other wet bodies. The party made her delicious to herself. She blew a kiss at her reflection.
That night her father turned the bedroom knob and more darkness spilled in through the crack in the door. She clenched her eyes and her inhaling and exhaling became a rapid, whispered prayer: partysaturdaynightatmyhousebringyourbathingsuit, partysaturdaynightatmyhousebringyourbathingsuit.
O The Day. O the Hallowed Day it came. O how the essence of Saturday struck her when first she opened her eyes. Gazing downwards her stomach appeared flatter than before.
Shaving her legs was a holy rite. She tapped the razor against the shower wall with an invocation, “Saturday night.”
She was standing on the front walk now. The party lie just beyond the house, she need only walk through. She felt a stifling heat in her groin that rose up to her jaw line as she stared at the front door. Time had slowed and the honey of June was oozing out of the atmosphere, out of the flowers. The door swung open.
“Oh! You’re here!” It was a male voice. She extended her hand, lowered the lids of her eyes.
Behind her she heard, “Here we are!” And two taller girls brushed past her into the womb of the house.
She trailed behind them, entranced. Through the sliding glass doors she could see the sunlight glinting off the pool. The surface of the water shone like a beacon.
She moved toward it as no one watched. She removed the t-shirt she had so carefully chosen hours before, kicked off a new pair of flip-flops, shimmied out of cut-off shorts.
She stepped off the side of the pool. An enormous splash. Many pairs of eyes on the water at the place she’d gone under.
One girl near the potato chips muttered, “cow.”
Under the water all was silence as she reveled alone in Saturday night. Opening her eyes she saw the long white legs of others. She let the air out of her lungs in a long bubbling sigh and rose to the surface. Awkwardly she climbed up out of the luminous blue rectangle.
As reality closed back in around her, she started to dry off in the heat of the night. Carefully dressing again, she walked back out through the front door of the house with a wet bottom.
Back in bed she stared in wonderment at the ceiling. The best party ever.
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