#350: April 8, 2007

Go on and pour me two glasses of wine;
I'll tell you when I need some more to drink.
'Cause lately it's been hurting me to think--
a few more snorts of this and I'll be fine.

There's brisker pipes than poetry for dance,
Old Terence said before he had to die.
He was my friend--I can't think he would lie;
so quaff quintessence while you've got the chance.

Our life's enjoyment lasts but for a season,
and Death's duration is eternity.
Why not enjoy a cocktail, maybe three?
They call the thing a "liver" for a reason!

I've heard the grave's a private place, and nice;
but just try getting tonic there, or ice.

#343: April 1, 2007

Le Pétomane trained for a baker's trade,
but longed to make his fortune in the arts;
alas, the only talent he displayed
was to control the timbre of his farts.

Some might believe an ill wind blew his fate,
but he transformed it into something rare:
with practice and the will to crepitate
he built the world's most tuneful derriere.

He played the Moulin Rouge, and soon his name
was counted 'mongst the most well-known in France.
And Frenchmen still today tell of his fame,
whose art was making music in his pants.

The story of Le Pétomane is true;
and there's a lesson in't for me and you.

#297: February 14, 2007

My love opens me up just like a rose
and so discloses my heart to the sun;
she places golden grains there, one by one--
without her ministrations, nothing grows.

My darling covers me like rich brown soil
and tucks my seedling dreams in humus beds;
from frost she shields their drooping fragile heads
until fruition answers all her toil.

And so whatever blooms spring from my soul,
whatever slender shoots rise to the air,
what fruits ripen and bend their branches there,
whatever once unformed grows true and whole

from this spare, fallow garden of my mind
is thine, my love--is thine, is thine, is thine.

#222: December 1, 2006

I want you to believe the things you read--
that brave boys, maybe less than ten years old,
climb stalks to heaven, magic beans for seed,
returning home with sacks of giant's gold;

I want you to believe a boy can fly,
fight pirates with his savage orphan friends;
crocodiles, mermaids, schooners in the sky
over London--adventure never ends;

For giants just get bigger as you grow,
and beanstalks wither, leave you grasping air;
the Captain hooks your shadow by the toe
and nails it to the ground with grown-up care;

So hold on to those beans, my son--you must;
and seal your dreaming eyes with pixie dust.

#213: November 22, 2006

Oh I've had friends who could not be my lovers
And lovers whom I would not want as friends;
A relationship that starts beneath the covers
Should not surprise you if that's where it ends;

Oh I've kissed lips before to stop them talking
And held a hand to keep it from a blow;
And I have tickled feet to start them walking,
And laughed through bitter tears to watch them go.

I've suffered through the carnal contradictions
Of love and lust, of hate and happiness;
And I've pronounced curses and benedictions
O'er heads I've loved or could not care for less;

You'd think a fool could not continue long
Thus without gaining wisdom--but man, you're wrong.

#212: November 21, 2006

The way you curve between shoulder and hip,
hands stretched above your head, a violin
of flesh; your sides invite my palms to slip
the alabaster polish of your skin--

I'd fold your fingers, tune your humming nerves
with feather touches down your arms, and know
you vibrant, vibrating within those curves
while I stand straight and rigid, like a bow--

I'd lay my cheek along your thigh and wait,
the hush and stillness; I could disappear
into the music we anticipate,
this symphony that only we will hear--

The way you answer me, taut as a string--
I move my hand over you, and you sing.

#93: July 25, 2006

I'm thinking about you again, you fuck.
I'd hoped you'd fallen out of sight and mind,
Become, once so malignant, more benign;
Forgot, if not forgiven--no such luck.

An old wound reopened and iodined
Has two stings: one remembered and one new.
Part of me wishes I could pardon you,
Turn a blind eye--turns out I'm not that kind.

I'm not over it yet. I'm not resigned
To suffer and move on; I'd rather chew
Betrayal and spit venom. None can suck
The poison that still renders me half-blind.
Oh, damn your eyes! My fingers itch to pluck
And crush them both like grapes--just one won't do.

#30: May 23, 2006

At LSU, a tiger's in a cage
behind the stadium. Mike is his name.
He paces his enclosure like a stage
and seems indifferent to his modest fame.
In summer his fur blazes like a flame,
and bars like hash-marks counting out his age
enmesh his stripes. Always, before the game,
they print programs with Mike on every page.

And all night, like a madman in his cell,
the tiger paces, tracing out the same
figure-eight path, imagining Indian sage
in the cheerleaders' perfume--such a smell!
Thinking of student bodies he would maim,
Mike walks in majesty, seething with rage.

#16: May 9, 2006

Why do you have to talk to me while I
am standing at the urinal trying to pee?
I think unspoken bathroom courtesy
demands your silence, and averted eye.

Can this not wait? What urgent piece of news
could overrule such common etiquette?
Good Lord, man, concentrate! Or else you'll wet
your shirt tail, to say nothing of your shoes.

I do not mean offense--what I mean is,
Give me some peace! Look only toward your feet.
I do not wish to speak while I excrete!
I do not talk while holding my penis!

I cannot think of any situation
In which I'd mix my piss and conversation.