watching alien television; living here,
talking, through me, down with the despot
the Nazi child that brings up the rear
don’t tell me that you give, now, what you got
when all that greatness boiled down to
a drain; people pissing their lives away—
chasing after me—i am the dragon, i rue
the day i find our pantry in disarray
chalk it up to Puerto Rican skin, meant for another, so, lo, where’s my replacement? Living in the next life—can I wait until then? people wonder, don’t they, when you’ll be yourself again? I’m after the music, telepathic language, the law of love, and this idea that my true love hasn’t been born yet
what am i to do until then? wait for her (as a confirmed bachelor)—is that bigot speak for “its okay to be gay as long as you don’t have gay sex?”
but somehow you look inferior, lass
i can’t tell the difference—i hear venom
in your pleasantries; why pretend, bad-ass,
that all the parts, together, defy the sum?
Take that tone with me—is that how you
treat the people you don’t like, forcing
sarcasm that shoots out of our screw;
i’m a long way from back to being
the elbow that you allow me to touch—
seeing, love, that you can handle the rub,
itchy-itchy protoplasm, he’s making such
a scene! loving nothing but life in the tub
getting hot as he dumps his back; here
to pick up more; and, then, to dump it back!
one thing, i know, between us, is clear:
if you got mad at me you might make me angry; seeing, as, how, well, I don’t think you’d face the weight you shed; gain it back in a jiffy—this unsustainable diet we tread
waffles living in my brain: an iron for the fist I wane. i believe my life, at some point, is about to change; i’ll be making love again—sending telepathic messages to all my friends; waiting to hear back from them!
you can’t stay, two-tone friend, on your toes
which way does the wind, lad, want to blow?
lost as you are, talking to me, the way it goes
when his hate—that—will thumb what we know:
trying, crazy as dust, to make a killing of
his lust—something, ironically, that you miss
when, as it happens, you can feel no love
and, because of that, happy and hardly remiss
to be what I am, spic and span: only
the future can reveal God’s plan, go to,
loving kinsman, treat you better than me
then find all this anger going into you
but translated, in the act, to something constructive: i’m just building the path I’m supposed to follow; feeling a little fate, a little destiny, but to or from what? the life never ends, thank you very much, no, lass, we go on forever; each level brings us a little closer to His love, but, honey, it could always be better, and, if you’re good, it will be, something to look forward to—we’ll converge, then, at infinity
looking in the hamper, full of loving sass,
thinking of the drifter that I do not trust,
falling flat, as he does, on his shampoo ass,
having had—does it matter? a bowel movement, yet? does His rim portray the life He quells? distance from the missionary position—makes me move a little away from you? in part, my friend, if you’re a Christian, don’t ever let them get out from under you, because, friend, when they see what’s possible, they’ll powder their nose
but there’s no position that would interfere:
you’re in, with me, and your language is rough:
don’t ever do that! you spartan smear,
for, if you did, i might do hardcore stuff
like going back to my boyfriend when your
argument is mean—invasive, even, for, if
you must know, the devil remains a spore;
the dust you pick up when you sue your midriff
so fine—then, there are signs that things
aren’t adding up; you want too much of me
when I’m trying to sleep: protest “no kings”
and I’ll disappear: doing away with his knee
to make a point, man, about his idolatry! shame, then, to feel the way i do—its part of the language—the language I screw! But the FBI, my friend, will take your fluff—interpret it as the ground you scuff, looking, what not, into the creepy general neighborhood of suburban voters
the kind that win elections! so get used to it, sister—if I should talk out of turn; i know that you love me, and, do tell, you’re the love I earned. but, again, who will be president? Me, you, or the enemy of Shakespeare, the protestant few—burning wicca alive, i have witches to brew: follow me to the end of the line! I love you, darling—you will be mine! But lo, wait, He’s back again—he’s passing judgement on the prophecy that we’d suspend: are we on equal terms, here? does it all balance out? then you can see how i might prove that, yes, divorce in heaven? It happens to the best of us! Be gone, then, witch at the stake; i cannot have you—it’s all or nothing, give or take!