You look like Venus,
he said as his eyes canvased
her body.
That makes you my Adonis,
she thought to herself.

Portrait: Mel C.

One woman has never been so mysterious
to me.
The thoughts etched on her face
are barely visible to us,
but the simplicity shines brightly.
She balances well, not unlike a
Chinese acrobat with tea cups.
There is less bravado, yes,
but the grace and beauty can't
be ignored.
So solid. She will be an old woman
with granddaughters who ask questions:
"What do you call a small rabbit
with no sense of identity?"
With a straight face, much straighter
than I can muster,
She will reply honestly and in French.
The grandkids will squeal and ask for more cookies.
I, myself, would steal time to remain
one seat away, figuring the puzzle in her face.
Those invisible etched thoughts that
I think I can see.

Reacquainted

I hugged you and my arms were not tight
I had forgotten
what you felt like and I've never been good at
hugging.

We talked.
We talked about the time when it was us
against the "world"
That time when I was inconsolable
and needed to talk my way through
everything
We got to the meat a few times:
Sex with boys and girls
Sex that was confusing and disabled. Ha!
We talked about being not necessarily
old, but definitely wise.
We talked about hanging out that this supposed
new Quad
We talked about our physical attributes
We talked about frowning unfortunate women
and feminism and our own bleeding hearts

The second time I hugged you
You felt familiar. I believe I got better at it.
Now, I believe we are reacquainted.

You Call is Important. . .

The IRS listens to Swan Lake
therefore I must. . .
If I want something for nothing
and I don't.
I don't need to tell you
we live in a nation
built on something for nothing.
Who composed Swan Lake?
How do I even recognize it?
That must mean I'm not too far gone.
The IRS picked a momentous piece
to keep me going
And that's the point isn't?
Keep the carrot in plain sight.
"Our representatives are still helping
other customers--- please continue to
hold."
Wagner! That's what we need!
I'm going to get what's coming to me,
before the next movement.
I just know it.

There are few things better than
sitting in the grass with a friend,
listening to music.
We talk trash, sing, and muse
about life. There is laughter.
There are threats of excessive
displays of emotion.
Promises are made and grasses
are plucked.
We have a good time. Not just
good, but bitchin' and that means
good.

There's More Than One

for Evelyn


Men are about as good as women
imagine them to be. (and to be fair---
it applies to all, really.)
"I love him because he's charming,
because he's handsome,
because we're destined to be together."
No one can tell her different.
She is very insistent.
The man might slaughter puppies
for a living
He might snort blow on his off time.
But she met him at a coffee house
while he was on break, of course.
She dug his Southern accent
and his blue eyes.
She missed the splatter of blood
on his shirt collar.
She missed the white powder
on his left nostril.
We've all missed something. It happens.

Bees Don't Even Have Knees

I brought the phrase: "the bee's knees,"
into casual conversation the other day.
The debacle reminded me that
I should always keep my mouth shut
while drinking.
Impossible! you say. That defies logic
and physics!
Well I am not learn'd in the arts of
logic and physics. Not if I'm calling them
arts.

I know words.
Not well enough, but we've been intimate.
We have falling outs when I drink.
They leave me--- along with logic,
who was never a steady bedfellow.
Even physics betrays me, but I'd
expect as much.
I brought the phrase: "the bee's knees,"
into casual conversation the other day.
The debacle reminded me--- fuck!
I'm repeating myself!

I know words.
We get along from time to time.
Until I drink and they've had enough
of my company and I say things like:
"Gee whiz, that's the knees bees."
There's probably something to be said
about "Gee whiz" too.
Don't go beating down the door.
"What seems to be the officer, problem?"
I'd hate to become a drinker with
writing problems. But gee whiz!
I think that'd be the knees bees!

I'm sitting on a bed with white linen,
upstairs, on wooden floors and with pale curtains;
eating grapes that I've peeled with my fingertips
and teeth.
I'm either in the room of a lover
or hiding in a lost childhood memory
or waiting for something that's better than
nothing.
Either way, I'm alone. Who brought the grapes?
A man? My mother? No one, the grapes don't exist?
The pale curtains flutter against a wind
A kind hearted zephyr begs to join me
in my solace.
We share grapes in bed.

Who are the Devoted Arsonists Keeping the Flames of Hell Burning?

I need a lawyer
They have plenty

I heard if I toss out a dime
a dozen of them will fall in my lap

I have no problems with them
I have no say

The Devil exists, yes
but he's hardly threatening

He plays squash with God
after a long trial and verdict

After the sentencing of a soul
they laugh over Chinese take-out

Hell isn't as damnable as we imagine
Not if you believe it's healthy to perspire
frequently

I need a bought judge
they have plenty

For Hector, who was anything but subtle





Does anyone really want to know
why someone loves them?
If you knew, would it make
you feel better?
Or would it be another thing to
worry about?
Would it give you something
else to keep up?
Would it be the same if someone left you?
Would you really want to know why?
Would it be better to make
comforting assumptions?
If you knew what made them
fall for you,
would it help when they left?
Would it help knowing that the thing that
made them fall wasn't enough to
keep them around?
How special would that thing be?
Does it really matter?
Does anyone really need to know
these things?

Portrait: Archie Reid (As told by his granddaughter through a cosmic interview)

Sitting in an overstuffed leather chair
Mr. Reid is relaxed.
Loading a pipe with sweet tobacco.
You shouldn't smoke, I say
It'll kill you?
I nod. We have a good laugh
before it gets too bittersweet.

Do you remember me?
Of course I do.
Because I barely remember you,
I fill in the gaps right now.
That's okay. Want a puff of this pipe?
We listen to Beethoven
and that fills a gap.
We write poetry in silence
and that's not real.

Up here, I heard you like William Carlos Williams.
How did you know?
Willy told me. He's a braggart.
Can you tell him I like
his tribute to the common man?
Mm-hm.

Mom misses you.
I know.
I've glorified your past image.
I know.
You're a giant.
Nearly six five.
I don't know about that.

Let's listen to Copeland's
Fanfare for the Common Man.
Yes, let's.

Portrait: Rob C.

A Conrad. The first Hilton
was a Conrad, who was
obsessed with keeping the sheets clean.

He would want me to include
the phrase: "Various stages of
undress." I don't think it fits.
He would like it to fit only
because he's a last born dramatist.
Ugh.

He doesn't dig child-like wonderment
What the hell?
If given the choice, who wouldn't dig
it? A boy who didn't like Charlie Brown
A man who works too seriously when wants to.
But he laughs like that's all neither here
nor there.

I attract madness
wherever I go
It flows like a frothing river
from a dog's mouth
only a dog knows no better
Decorum and chivalry
are thrown out the window
My objectivity is in full view
The separation between
my pussy and my brain
is miles and miles and miles
and the only pit stop on this journey
is a pair of breasts.
The final destination is rarely reached
Ownership is now an issue
All of this
is leased to the lowest bidder
The rent is rarely paid
The madness can't be stopped
nor contained nor reigned.
I lead it wherever I go.

Thoughts on July

I pretended to work
I pretended to like the work
I was momentarily romanced
I enjoyed it tremendously
I missed a friend
I gained a couple
I thought for a while
I thought about the future
I got hot
I eventually worked
I did not like the work
I was left
I did not like that either
I planned
I saved
I lounged
I was busy
I was busy when I needed to be
I talked to people
I built rapport
I waited for a long time
I thought some more
I wrote where I could
I smiled and laughed at the appropriate times
I smiled and laughed everywhere.
I experimented with heady drugs like flattery

I got older

I did not get wiser

I avoided and exploited

I rode
I was ridden
I was ridden by the world, it seemed
I received no breaks
I am fine

Thoughts on Being Stoned

There were many factors
to consider when approaching
my momentary insanity.
Ev was right when she said:
"Your thumb is going to be sore."
She was right when she said that

The first time I inhaled, I told myself:
"I'm fine."
I said that after the first time I inhaled.
And that's where we found the
lapse of rational thinking

Romance

That was what I wanted
I didn't want to say it aloud
I would have shouted it, if I did.

Do my clothes smell like it? Romance?
No, the weed.
The craziness that ensued, remember?
I won't be with someone
who likes dragonflies. That's what I realized.
Loss of function.
Romance ensued.

I started to believe I wanted some of that.
Also, that I wanted goose liver pate
Fois de-something
I wanted shoes too.
I suddenly wanted Mikhail Baryshnikov
to read me poetry

(What do I smell like) Paranoia?
I want to hold hands with someone
who plays Beethoven's something
with his hands.
I am stoned
I am hungry
I can't dance right.

(Is everything just a little too entertaining) Paranoia?
I am slow
I could not make out "relevations" vs. "revelations"
Same word, right?
I didn't ask.

I also wanted someone to "slam fuck" me.
And I can't even take credit for that phrase
It was told to me by a "Mikhail."
When my knees are steady and wrapped
around a man's hips,
I will laugh loudly.
And this man must paint or some shit.

But there were many factors to consider.
I was high, of course.
Cookies and potatos tasted like Apollo's
sunstreaked fingers dipped in Venus' honey.
I can't go around saying shit like this.

Inaccurate and pejorative desires;
I am not devout.
I am too honest right now and still too coherent.