Obsolete Maps
There are spots on your body
That are never touched or seen,
Nearly impossible to reach, even
Connoisseurs of the human body
Do not know what to call them.
Borders
Where bones always nudge
Against the fuzziest skin.
Where inside and outside
Are confused and flushed.
Processed Food
On my hands and knees,
I reached behind the bauhaus
Of her stained porcelain bowl
For a rainbow of M&M’s.
Trinity
Out of her laboring hole, her husband’s head.
Though full-grown, it was blind and beardless.
She slapped it when it demanded
Songs and teats. Asymmetrical,
They lay next to each other,
A mingling of breath, dirt and saliva.
Sick of the one,
She gave birth to another.
Serial
Toes and dirty feet
Lined up in a row.
Bare bellies in a row.
Male and female
Genitalia in a row.
Legs are for draping.
Arms are for folding.
Lips are for peeling.
So much DNA
To gather.
Putang
Putang is the capital
Of an insular state.
Its rail service
Is perpetually
Understaffed.
Liquid
Always sluicing, her overflowing body
Seeps through her blouse and jeans.
Her eyes leak through their shut eyelids.
Her breasts bead and drip in the sun
Into a defiant puddle.
Gaseous
The articulated gas
And learnt discharge
That bind and distress.
The accidental hiss.
Brightest birds, must you
Always discuss plumbing?
Wiping
For drying or cleaning, until
You don’t see it, of course.
Pondering wiping, I picture
The clean, dry bodies of nuns,
Nurses and armless soldiers.
A Fairy Tale
In the moonlight, he hoisted himself
Up the funky, kinky hair tangling
Down the rugged, leaning tower,
Trying to tag his dusky reward
Before the moon struck midnight.
Ductless Gland
The Adam’s apple is no apple
But a little man, an artistic type,
An unpublished poet half-swallowed,
Squatting in front of the voice box.
Bardic
He sang not of oceans
Or the open road but
The pale sun rising
On each thumb nail.
He sang not of breasts
But of breastbones.
If you’re interested in having my entire output of poems in English, please PayPal me at least $16, and I’ll email you the 386-page PDF. The PayPal donation button is at the top of my photo blog. I went from an anthologized poet, with poems in Best American Poetry, etc., to being untouchable. My profile at the Academy of American Poet, Poetry Foundation and PennSound were put up before I started to look into Jewish power, Jewish thinking and Jewjabs, etc.
7/4/13
Is it the Fourth of July yet?
So who should I shoot now?
Dude, can I jerk off your flag?
You’re welcome to stroke mine,
Then we can both massage
The Constitution, you know,
Roll it up, like this, and stuff
It up the Liberty Bell’s ass.
Man, I feel like voting again.
It’s like eating bad Chinese.
Did you elect this emoticon?
I’m bored, let’s waterboard
A whistleblower or two.
Global warming is cool,
So let’s all sleep naked,
Just like Bradley Manning.
I’ve never heard of him either.
You know what kicks ass?
A flag tattoo on a corpse,
Or guys pissing on a corpse.
Let’s snag some Army chicks
And make a naked pyramid.
Don’t join if you don’t want some.
Air Duct to Air Duct
To kiss is to threaten
To eat someone without
Actually chewing and swallowing.
It is also to wed digestive tracts,
Meaning the ultimate expression
Of intimacy, no less than
Having two assholes welded
Together, otherwise
Known as marriage.
Whits
Before he could tongue her, one of his teeth
Fell out. “That's OK,” he winked at his stale
Yet chirpy stablemate, “I still have plenty left.”
As if to prove it, he spat out a stringy and
Bloody assortment, then counted to ten
Before losing interest. He popped them back.
They kissed for the longest time, maybe even
A bit longer, since they had already paid too much,
You see, and had to get the most out of this swindle.
They had to milk it by any means necessary. “This
Is way overrated,” she grimaced. “Aren’t you gonna
Ask what I’ve been reading? It’s not Jonathan Swift,
That’s for sure. I mean, I like poetry and everything,
But soon as I bite into one... ” “You just wish you hadn’t,”
He finished the sentence for her. Speaking of sentences,
Some should be as long as the most tedious bridge
You will ever encounter, while others could be as brief
As this sunshiny life, and it always matters. Many whits.
Make it Swift
Many insist that the modern toilet
Is a male figure, a middle-aged grump
Complaining endlessly about what did
Or didn’t happen in his sighful life. Others
Will counter that the commode is actually
Quite a lovely lady, with enviable curves.
But what about that lid on her mouth?
“Other women are so envious of me.
I can’t sleep a wink, without worrying
That your wife, for example, will sneak
In here to steal my lid, and snap it onto
Her own lovely yet incomplete mouth.”
This poem is so full of it.
And I’m so full of it, being a
Sighful middle-aged creep. Ah!
But why do we read and digest
At the same time, desecrating
Both reasonably excusable acts?
So put this non-poem down, please,
And finish musing in relative peace.
Wrong Tool Man
Out of some desperate
Political, philosophical
And moral conviction, he uses
Scissors as toothpicks,
Books as footrests or chairs,
Hotels as sexy morgues,
Genitals as ghost limbs,
Brain as bowels,
Shakespeare as André Breton,
Life as afterlife,
Earth as moon.
If you’re interested in having my entire output of poems in English, please PayPal me at least $16, and I’ll email you the 386-page PDF. The PayPal donation button is at the top of my photo blog. I went from an anthologized poet, with poems in Best American Poetry, etc., to being untouchable. My profile at the Academy of American Poet, Poetry Foundation and PennSound were put up before I started to look into Jewish power, Jewish thinking and Jewjabs, etc.
