“…who gets to see
most sex organs in the world? Not
poets. With the hours they keep
they need drugs more than anyone.” – James Tate “On the Subject of Doctors”
Sunflower wine in everything these days.
Cookie crumbs go great will alcohol
as do cello concertos and wouldn’t you know it,
every poet has a handful of jazz musician friends.
What I mean, is that poems make good kindling;
sparks are verbs being ripped limb from limb
and they cost a helluva lot less than wood,
which used to be commonplace in Washington state,
like a boy dressed in flannel, like a narcoleptic
with a ready supply of pillows.
I’ve got a lot of verbs to burn, a lot of conjugation
to piss away in the wind. Been so long since I had
some home-cooked noodles. Any single girls you know
cook a mean pot of pasta? This time last year, I thought
I’d have at least three girls to juggle, like so many
bowling pins in my hands. My game has suffered.
Lots of pretty girls in the alley; can’t get any of
them alone though, too many walking hard-ons
with testosterone leaking from their eyeballs. Think
that could be a bad thing? I do, I do, I do.