3
i don’t go wandering, recounting my
greatest hits; there’s something greater in
store for me, a function of the eye
that centers my attention when I’d grin
(thinking, of course, that, for now, I’m alone)
but my maker keeps track of me constantly,
speaking the language i might disown
if things were left to them, and not to me,
a suffragette that suffers without feeling
any pain; I just redirect the arc
that keeps this ruffian bear from his sting,
the opposite of Him, living in the dark
How, you may ask, does this bow down
to me? take my nightie and besmirch
it with this: at the top, call me a clown
for thinking I’m welcome outside church
answering His prayers—left in the lurch.
who likes my style? who listens to jazz?
Everybody, for me, is going to search
the kid above us, sorry for what he has
rock and roll, backward all the time;
write something, lad, for the piano
i don’t care to commit to any crime,
and, if you’ll have me, then we’ll surely go,
thinking of the Rockies, someone says no
i can see farther, sir, in the twilight,
trusting you as far, friend, as i can throw
secret agent with diamond eyes at night
sinking his claws into the love i protect
i have something nobody can take—
a link to the life that I can correct,
wrap myself around, squeeze like a snake
if you love me, pig-foot, then what? Silly girl—talking to the president, almost herself; save the silent action of the penis on the shelf. “Yeah, I’ll do whatever you want—within reason, of course; tell it to me straight: you’re as tired as a horse
get me killed in battle, God doesn’t lie; but think ahead to His tranquility, making love with cyclops eyes. i’m listening my darling, i have you’re number in my phone; one day i’ll use it, when you think you’re all alone: don’t know if i’m doing this right, but the writing is on the wall,
stool smeared ultimatums from the prophet we adore; Jeremiah come home, now; it’s time to fix yourself. don’t like all this philandering, please correct yourself.
but i love no other woman: only the one that is taken: country bumpkin in the attic, making a fool out of us, seeing as we, together, form a chorus
we’re only as good as our wife, nine times out of ten, drive me home daddy, get me out of trouble again.