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Showing posts from May, 2013

Another Draft

Perverse Cowgirl

Know what you’re saying before
you say it. Your partner of choice
may have an opinion. You must
efuckingnunciate carefully so

that when you hop on or your
partner hops on there needs
to be between spasms a careful
avoidance of cramp. That’s when

you’re talking about something
else. A perverse cowgirl, though
is someone you want to be next
to you in the firefights of life

and the enrapturing
of the erotic. They are evil
when you need them to be
and crushingly familiar

with your Eros and your Than-
atos. If you have kink in you
they’ll bring it out. Bells on,
and maybe a bit of feathers

and the bedroom door firmly
set against the eventual creep
of your children who will see
something that takes years

of therapy to unsee and never ever
gets forgotten. On your deathbed
they will remember and before they
cry will think of you in lingerie. O God.


Walking the line
I felt a stalwart black eye
of the hurricane blindside
me at midmorning. Tore
down the street 110 miles per

only to find my stop at
the end of the whine in
Gloucester where I dropped
off Olson’s now-fenced entry

to the Harbor.  A seagull
floated me down but
I rose like seltzer bubbles
all the way to the end,

where piers from three
centuries ago aggro’ed
me into submission. I
beat the oxygen

to the surface but flailed
in the face of the fish
company taken over the wharf
puked up my brunch

and decided to drive
up the Cape but lost my
way on Bearskin Neck where
all the protopoets go for ice

cream or to gig their hard
drives into submission.
Their poet hats are so quaint.
I’d like to bust them in the nose.