Critics

"What kind
of poetry
do you
write?"

"My kind
of poetry
you fucking
dipshit."

The butter to my bread

I can hear
all my women
singing like doves

Friends, some half-lovers
calling to me
telling me, laughing,

"Come on, babe!
Get your head
out of your
lily-white ass!"

Goddamnit, I love
them so much.
The butter to my bread.

Howlin'

I leaned up
and put my
book down.

She was laying on
her side
enjoying the sun

Her eyes moved
sideways at me
calm
and I kissed
her on the
head

The most beautiful
bitch in the room.

It was about 11
and I wanted
a coffee.

I got up, picked
up my keys and,
without a word,
walked out the front door.

From the driveway
I could hear her
run down the stairs,
frantic, panting

By the time I
was at the road
I could hear her,
heartbroken,
barking and barking
like the dog
she was.

The Friend, The Fool, The Lover, and The One

When I walked
out of work
on Friday
I could feel
it in the
pit of my
heart that
I was
going to get
laid.
I was going
to have
them all.

The story goes
as a quatro
The Friend
The Fool
The Lover
and The One

I only fucked
one of them
but
for some reason
I'm okay with
that.

Still trying to figure
out
which one
fucked me.

Probably The One.

A real patriot

We pulled in the driveway
It had been a long
day of romance -
Smiling at each other
and laughing at each
other smiling
and sitting quietly

Calm punctuated
by
small kisses in
the river,
a bridge of flowers,
ice cream, records,
napping in the car
and signing our
names together twice
in the guestbook

We got back to my
place and I was
hot.
Ready to go
I had thought
about it half the
ride home.
It was going to
be raunchy
4th of July sex
like the Forefathers
would have wanted it!

I got out,
"shall we go in?"
and started to walk in.

"I think I'm gonna go home."

"Alright,"
I said.
"Happy 4th of July"
and turned around.

Walked up the steps,
laid down,
and beat off like
the dummer boy
in Concord.

Angels and Demons

It had been months
since I had
seen her
and fuck she
looked as beautiful
as ever.
The smock hung from
her shoulders like poetry
and the same for
her dark brown hair.

We hugged and sat
on the porch. I
had a beer but
she said she
couldn't stomach it.

We went 0 to 60
with the therapist
shit.
Her split
and all of mine.

It didn't take long
for us to start laughing.

It got dark
and we read poetry
to each other,
Bukowski and old Saigyo.

I apologized for trying
to kiss her on
New Years.
We were intimate but
she kept her foot
on the clutch always
(she knew I wouldn't)

She wouldn't accept it
"There's  nothing to
apologize for."
She said,
"It had been ages
since I'd been
listened to.
Really listened to."

I smiled and sighed.

"We'll have our day"
I promised her.

She had the eyes,
the face of an
angel,
But I could see
her get mad.

"What the hell
is that supposed to
mean?"

She knew what it
meant and I felt
bad that she couldn't
just accept me being
a chickenshit for
right now.

Real truth

Every poem I write
that turns out
longer than five
lines will inevitably
be >5 lines of
shit