#413: Dogs Playing Poker

They sit quite still, politely placing bets.
The cone of light, tipped with a green glass shade,
encircles them. New cards are dealt and laid.
They mark the passing time in cigarettes.

Reflected in the Pug's huge, umber eyes:
the pair of queens he's holding over tens.
The Afghan sees, and checks. The Beagle wins--
a full boat, rocking aces over threes.

A few more beers, the Boxer wants to fight
("How typical," the Bulldog notes, all gruff).
The Dachshund cashes in and tips his hat,
says Gutentag to all, he's lost enough.
Remaining paws divide the pot; that's that.
No one got bit; in all, a decent night.
_

#407: The Hazards of Marrying an English Major

My loved one has to be a Grammar Nazi,
Correcting me at every small mistake;
It makes her feel all smug and hotsy-totsy
to get her digs in while I'm half awake;

A typo in an email brings down thunder;
A misplaced adjective will stoke the flames.
There's hell to pay for every tiny blunder:
arch ridicule and denigrating names.

If I could diagram her in a sentence,
The subject and object of my desire,
We could forget anal retentive nonsense
And just wink at my dangling modifier;

Alas, though--it has yet to come to that.
Now, where'd I leave that darn red pencil at?
_

#360: April 18, 2007

Name anyone--now, when you take a breath,
one of his atoms flies into your lungs.
All history parades across our tongues,
and every exhalation conquers death.

For matter, not created nor destroyed,
but changed only in form, must then persist;
and all who existed must still exist,
though parts of them be differently employed.

Therefore, long after I take my last taste
of Einstein, Shakespeare, Lincoln and the rest,
and go to particles--don't be distressed,
my love, for nothing in us goes to waste:

In breasts unformed, in breaths untaken, we
will be together, elementally.

#335: March 24, 2007

Down in my secret lair, bathed in the lights
of databanks that mark these final hours,
imagining my doomsday satellites
that ring the planet like a crown of flowers,

With squads of henchmen ready to command
who at my word will terrorize and kill,
and every government in every land
moments away from crumbling to my will,

I think of how my grandma said to me,
"Though life is long, its greatnesses are few;
and of all men, most fortunate is he
who dreamed and did just what he hoped to do."

The countdown starts, the crypto-failsafes buzz--
and I can't help but think how right she was.

#263: January 11, 2007

No one wants to get caught browsing the aisle
where all the sex books are in the book store.
Discovery yields an embarrassed smile
and sudden fascination with the floor.

Those Kama Sutras, every how-to guide,
the recipes for aphrodisiacs,
go unlooked-at when there's no place to hide
from all those judging eyes that scan the stacks.

They'd not run sensuous fingers down a spine,
remove its dust jacket like lingerie
and probe its secret, innermost designs
for knowledge--God! What would the neighbors say?

And so those tomes sit in their cases yet,
And I thank God there is an Internet.

#151: September 21, 2006

The story's often told about the snake
who befriended a frog to hitch a ride,
and doomed them both halfway across the lake--
his snakiness just could not be denied.

Likewise the scorpion wooed the ladybug
and promised her he'd still his murderous tail,
yet killed his love, and with a mournful shrug
Proved proofs against his nature bound to fail.

Just so am I, who, though I try my best,
can't stop offending those I long to please;
Though I grind teeth and pound upon my chest,
the beast inside always wins his release.

I'm not trying to be an ass, you see--
it's just some things come naturally to me.

#88: July 20, 2006

Sunset--the dying star had just gone pink
and thrown a fiery halo around clouds
purpled like bruises. Gray light like a shroud
edged our drunk eyes. The sun began to sink,
half-circle on the flat line of the day's
last breath, then sectioned to an arc it stood,
bright as a knife blade in a pool of blood.
The sky turned crimson in diminishing rays.
Suddenly the entire world went red--
my hands, your eyes, the bottle at our feet.
I could have done a murder in that light.
Then finally the sun vanished, and night
descended on us like a sheet of lead.
One breath, and then the darkness was complete.

#37: May 30, 2006

Best way to eat a rattler: lop its head
well back, then gut and skin and serve up fried
in cornmeal, like a catfish; once you've fed,
you'll know you did it right if no one's died.

Hot, it's like froglegs (that old Southern dish),
but once it cools the taste grows indistinct;
a bit like chicken, but also like fish--
perhaps a fossil flavor missing link.

It's good, but something primal still recoils
as from the buzz of bones upon its tail;
fears venom in the veins, hears hiss in oil,
sees ribs all curved like fangs and sharp as nails.

What is it thrills your heart and steels your breath?
The courage of a pagan, eating Death.