Sunday, May 31, 2015

Publicity


Nobody puts coleslaw in a corner
(to parade around the obvious).

Allow me to beg the question to differ
right before your eyes:

Who's on first? The whole team,
I'm afraid; looks like the airline

isn't going to reimburse them.
Boy, if there's one thing I hate

it's got to be worth my life, if not my limb—
as when the street presents a face

too timely to turn to in despair,
you feel me? I'm a guy who loves

a clean, unobstructed sight line.
I would marry it in a heartbeat

just to appease its sorry ass, but
nobody wants that kind of publicity.

Wednesday, May 27, 2015

Sweet Meteor


In days of dark refrigeration, Sasquatch put on his thinking cap
and that decided me: no more drumhead trials before bath time.

Play instead your violet violin, sweet meteor—it's not the sea,
it's the tranquility. The coast is alive with focus groups,

each one more focused, more fecund, than the last.
Smell what I'm selling? Joyous emissions clog the annals

of common courtesy, worlds away from their former precocity.
Just below the surface, visibility is reduced to begging;

laundry gets lost in the offing. Whatever's left is all that
remains of our misspelled misanthropy. One breath is as

charmed as another, be it bated or belated; you can call me
out to catch mine as fast as my phoned-in departure allows.

Wednesday, May 20, 2015

Go west or go home; you can't kill the same river twice.
Go on! Be a part of the hair you fear,
you proud stickler—what you digest is what you gestate
for an evening's elastic embrace.

But don't dare the heavens to descend
almost to a man, lest the podcast relieve you
of the comedy gold in what the stork brought to brunch:
That's right, she's Daddy's little fundraiser,

mentor to the stars. Sweep her into your heart
and strip down to your merest identity. Take care
not to doff your concern for questions
that practically ask themselves, warming to your subject

only when you've teased it into being. Wash your hands of it
and set forth on a tourney of discovery;
you win some, you lose more. I've had a blast
despite repeated warnings of exponential poignancy.


We took a lot of pride in our druthers, waiting for
Our nachos and beer to get born. The fat sky
Cradled us mildly; in short order
The forest was adjourned. Who lurks there now?

It gets hard to see as night comes down
And pays for itself. Teased into being,
You begin to warm to your subject
Even as mine cools off.

Stripped to its merest identity, what you digest
Is what you gestate in lieu of an evening's
Elastic embrace. That done, you're free
To usurp a throne or two. I held out

My heart for the public to view.
Faceless and afraid, I stood lost in your thought,
Whose train had just up and left. Well then, I said,
Have a nice life, and a good weekend.

Tuesday, May 19, 2015

Smell You Later


Better shove off. It's time to flush beauty
from incredulity's redoubt. Good luck

doesn't apply here, let alone matriculate.
Professor Pleasure's gone away; rainbows

scared him, blasting in through windows,
introducing all new semen spray—

a single serving will light up the coast for a day
or so. Yes, the universe picked your nose

and that's impregnable, but you asked for
nothing less. Don't we all, before we go?

Monday, May 18, 2015

In Your Absence


It's always sex o'clock somewhere.
In honor of my outsider status
I present you with medicine
conceived in liberty, swallowed
in 3-D. That'll set the swan song swinging
if anything will; they say it's a cozy time
to be alive, and they would know
who know how to drive.

Heat, stern wife to humidity, is moving
upon us, will question us shortly.
Quick, tell me again about your gag reflex.
Presently I'll belly up and
snooze, squeezed in among archaic torsos.
Far away, across the street, it's Saturday night.

Wednesday, May 6, 2015

Cave of Else


Light up and seal a cloud in your maw
While in the free meal there's an outrage
Falling all over a hard-on in season

Isn't it better than piano notes on a prayer
Glued to a chair or a cure for zero
Mentions in minutes out of gloom writhing high

Now take some stabs and harass a leaf
Until it's a splendor unequaled, the pride
Of a mountain in the prime of wife

Under whose coat the sun's painted on
This little wonder is proud to pump
Agreeably with or without a cause

You'll never hear the end of before
We become a cave of else rocked back
On a new can-do attachment