THE NOODLE who would tally love in fractions
will find in me slight negative reactions –
I’ll bet he’s yet another standing pisser
[with stubble sproutin’ daily on his kisser]
a heart is not some citrus grown in sections
it’s at a race course one backs up selections
parlays bets and hedges all around
[love gamed like this is better lost than found]
what? save a slice for later in the day?
this isn’t love; it’s just erotic play;
parsimonious types aren’t worth a fig –
where love is freely given, hearts grow big
NEVER give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything that’s lovely is
But a brief, dreamy. Kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts up to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows all the cost,
For he gave all his heart and lost.
therefore I am
what most think
holds all of this together
gravity – just a gummy old shoe
I have seen
pristine lily unbesmirched snow
I dare you reach out and touch
I dare you now deny it exists –
LOVE also is
a century forward
misunderstanding at last resolved
women having dissolved
their winning streak
[winning is what men do, darlings]
and when, thus, the orders of relevance
[all error of King Eros spewed by guys
and satelites with whistle-clean brains]
there might be a hope
of a healthy humanity
the only answer –
predating all question
…and all the adjectives
affixed like tails on a two-dimensional donkey
attest its grandeur –
romantic maternal erotic brotherly –
merely ways Love catches the light…
and to this day
holds it together…
whatever else you can name
is less than library paste
There’s a fakery in sex –
I just can’t get away from it.
Is it because I’m so –
no, beyond over the hill?
I have the feeling it was always so
but I chose not to see it. . . until now.
It’s like some black and white movie
[you know, a leafy country road, 1940]
and she has her floral chintzed ass
on the fender, one ridiculously
platformed heel on an outrageous hubcap
while the convenient stranger
replaces the probably unpunctured tire –
hormones and a studio director
conspire to make it more than it is.
It always seemed to me
that after the first sip, even
great Belgian beer seems flat
I mean: he’s mine; I’m his
but beyond all that…?
not the bees knees
Am I maybe just hard to please?
We were just playin’ cowboys and indians
on some rocky foreign shore, but I was no Dale Evans
to some toy Roy Rogers, no. I was more – by blood
and for real – a distaff Tonto – or perhaps some newfangled
Tiger Lily or a genuine “little wanton” Pocahontas
cussin’ in Algonquin and bein’ a real devil…
or even, more rightly, the Agaidika Shoshone
boat-pusher bird-woman Sacajawea… albeit
with a bit of Sitting Bull thrown in
That last day, Lone Ranger looked
as only pedigree spaniels and men in love
ever do, as he sat dead center on the third
& foldup bed that had served as our setee
and he said just loud enough for me to hear
I love you girl
His head dropped a minute
while he shook it in disbelief
and then as if for comic relief
he looked up and added you got me
and I saw myself rise like some exotic hybrid
phoenix – half bareback buckskinned rider
bowstring stretched to the limit,
half pudgy cupid past its sell-by date –
arrows – all feathered arrows – or at least one
shot perfectly straight to the marrow
and any way you slice it, it felt unforgettably great.
This night was neither blue nor black
above a lulling, rhythmic sea;
the casement – half swung wide –
zinc white as Sisley’s Rouen sailboat, hotel
sheets, that sugared Chagall bride; and me (like
some legendary amazon astride my stallion,
my once and future mate) abundant mane
unribboned, bare arms in a great Y to heaven
not as if to question, no, in joy –
a joy which I cannot equate,
born of a spent & holy lust – a sacrament
unprissified, yet connubial in essence –
not some degenerate free rein given
to ungiving senses – that common
or garden depravity milled in ego,
riddled with vain pretenses;
no, this was wholly & completely right –
our secret, sacred, sanctified alignment, and oh
how mindful I was of all it meant, and of a taking –
of a being taken as a woman and of a sealing in the act,
but equally conscious was I of the fact this was almost
comically wanton in its innocence – erotic love sole opiate
& nectar – a robust, breughelien celebration, a superb &
mutual drunkenness – as devoid of exploitation as of malice –
two bodies, minds and hearts poured in one chalice.
[one of my very favourites]
Wet with midnight rain the upturned rake
glints by the wall. Nearby, hints of lichen glisten.
Autumn gardening – brown and brittle leaves
between the prongs of bright red metal –
less alive, they seem somehow, than the years
we gather for burning by the stones.
Would that they would smoke out the rest
in our garden of Now – but who among us
is truly free of shackles, unburdened
by imagined, sorrow-filled tomorrows
that creep like moles beneath the tufts of sod.
It’s been a constant struggle all my life
to find a way to live in truth and smile.
I doubt I could have been somebody’s wife
since disappointments sting after awhile.
I don’t think I’m inordinately vain –
I just don’t hide my feelings well I guess.
I find most pretense pretty much insane
and when the fault is mine I do confess.
Some think I’m brave but they dont know the truth –
In point of fact you could say that I’m blind.
I learned to tough it early in my youth
and now I simply say what’s on my mind.
Still, lately sadness seeps down to the bone –
I really do not want to be alone.