Handling Love
When Bridget
Fitzgerald and Jacob Linnear
rolled into
town, buck-boarded up and
seemingly
traveling together, folks saw nothing
new; barely made an eyebrow raise, too common
place,
their arrangement. Only in
syntax, in the
'best', 'all best'
could they be caught. Bridget, with heart so high on sleeve
it might have been a wing, was happy. Jacob wore his too, but hidden
under
an armpit
beat
another
heart.
Bridget didn't know
about the other. Didn't hear the beat
of satisfaction. Under
the other arm was a third heart. It heard
neither. It beat
blindly-
though such things
will,
in time, find light
and venture out.
Critical Morons
ever notice how it's always
ass*holes
who use
'clapping'-
--tell you what
i'd like to
tie their
hands
together,
betcha
nuthin'd be said for a
hunnerd years --come to think of it,
nothing
has-- except
their grand assholishness, clapping cheeks
together
'stead of
words
True Lies
I have found
the most primitive
of heart, ones who eat meat
raw- and dream of shagging
unwilling, under-age girls
after a bit of a
scuffle- are the first to assume that
violence as answer to violence is a blue
collar
one---even as they sit around
the University Club, daubing blood
-oh so delicately- from the corners
of their mouths,
just before
they fart their sanctimonious meatfarts,
discussing
how Krishnamurti would handle the Taliban
while the Towers are still
smoking.
Sepulchres
Know what I hate?
I hate all the limp-dicked,
pussy-whipped
God-fearin'
Christian
men whose wives all dress
like mannequins
before they gave them
nipples
or
eyelashes
or
asscracks, who prowl around
the internet
looking for
the
adolescent, daddy
fucked, head
case
runaways who're trying to stay out of the dumpsters
with a yellow ribbon
police
tape
by posing for
the
shifty
eyed,
pock-marked, razor-cutted
wheeler-dealer e-commerce
sacks of shit
who profit
by the
lambs who are lost,
who must be found,
who are worth a king's ransom, the least of us
who have faith as of a mustard seed-
who need
for their
salvation, so much more
than a Vuitton bag
portfolio and false
hope-
the daughters of the working class
of drunkards and divorced, who only ask you
notice them
even if they have to be these
little,
naked,
lamps of God...
The Stand-In
I'm not a fruit-red jism hole
-I want to make that clear.
Your infant rage at womankind
that crept into your crib
to vacuum lock your psyche
with a suffocating memory
of near annihilation
by a pair of breasts and lips
is not sufficient cause to bind me
with your fetishistic cords.
I am entirely
only
me
not a Mommy
or a cunt
nor a pouting, painted
Kewpie. Or the womb
that hides the teeth
that bit your precious little hose.
I suppose
your fear of her
has trickled down
to fear of me
and it chills me now, my love
the way you look at me
at times.
I'm not the babe
who totters toward you
on those tall stiletto heels
who can call out THOSE erections
felt so granite. Filled with anger.
You rope the
'stand-in' bust
to fire the shot-out, sought for spew
-I understand
because they're holograms
of her.
She wears a ball between her teeth
that pulls the eyes down
starts the spittle
so that fireworks come
from deep within your cock.
No need to punish
paddle
tie me up.
To vindicate, humiliate
with weapons used on ghosts.
You can erupt
and feel a moment free
of deep and nameless shame
and that is what I think she did
the buried phantom
'she'-
shamed you
for your being male
and all your life's
an angry search
to find the bitch
to shut her up.
To bind her
for a thousand years
for shaming
while enflaming you
I understand
but undertand,
that I was never she.
Give 'Em What The Want,
A Poem In Two Parts
1.
Tennessee Waltz
I like it
in my mouth
so much. You
be an angel put
it there
right now.
You taste like
tears
oysters and tears
and get your friend
bob too.
bobwhite
bobwhite
I hear in trees
when daddy does me
no one hears me
two in the morning
tomorrow
school
I wish I didn't
have to be so goddamned
foolish
or so fat
but here comes Henry
he'll be the one
to make me, for
a moment, think I'm
Princess Di
who could do
anything,
underneath
them hats.
2.
Give 'Em What They Want
watch my face crack
right in half
side to side and wide enough to swallow
Monday's mood-
I am a
looser, bendable Gumby
when I
wannabe
cause everybody
likes me when I wear the torn slip,
full-lipped, dahlia of the south
'just done by daddy'
face-
that round-heeled
rockabilly
girl just sweet enough to pop
right in your mouth
and yes
she's young enough to
tie into a pretzel, well now,
everybody
wrestle
for the warm bath
of her
battin blues
but really, knowing
her--she'll take
all cummers.
[The first poem was written and posted as an experiment
in one of the larger poetry forums. It was hit on like chum,
proving my point that ANY poem that has to do with child
molestation will get LOTS of attention. I have to believe
that is NOT a good sign. I think it is a subject used for
titillation and opportunism, to attract both sympathy and
perverse interest- and in my opinion, that sucks.~ Karen]
More Brothers Than We Think
Images
get behind the eyes
and prick, constrict the lungs
or maybe
jab
the heart a little, but yesterday, I listened
to an ABC All News station
out of West Virginia,
interview a reporter living in Kuwait.
And he was asked about the missiles, Seersuckers
I think they call them, not the
Skuds there were afraid they were, but
more like tin cans
tossed from roving, portable launchers
they feared were filled with
chemical payload. Seems
Kuwaitis
were issued
government-purchased gas masks; all it took
was citizenship to prove
you have a right to breathe. Trouble
is, so many of the crowded in Kuwait
are menial workers, Kurdish immigrants, and
believe it or not-
a heavy swell of Taiwanese
who couldn't afford the 500 dollar
rubber, filtered breathers, so when the sirens
sounded 'INCOMING',
all Kuwaitis dutifully
donned their life support,
and waiters, maids, and garbage men
with slanted eyes
gone
big, would stand and pray which goes
to show you
-every country has its 'niggers'
...............................................don't they.
Nero's Fiddle
The war has come
in 26 inch and big screen Circus
Maximus. Fire and blood,
color pixeled right in the home.
Cut to a chopper,
then a downed one, then a commercial
about investments. Zoom to a face
whose stone bravado covers a fear that only a boy
from Texas
afraid of horses, who joined to army
to prove he could drive a tank would know,
then go to
promo
for the Oscars.
Fade to American flag
with a slogan and network logo
scored with serious music.
But don't forget to show
our boys. A close up
or two,
dirty, determined, those midwestern ones are best
and good for a lion's share
of the Nielson's.
If only Cronkite
hadn't retired, this is a
programmer's dream. "The American
Nightmare" spliced and edited,
with breaks to allow us to let out the dog,
visit the loo, for mothers
to go to the
basement
and get out a scream- try changing
the station, another variation
of what, though bloody, is major
ratings. Surf the channels. What you'll hear is like
the sound of an orchestra tuning up. Play that fiddle
CNN. Play it twenty four seven, crank
it out, saw it to splinters and thank our sponsers
for the war.
The High Stink
Of Easy
Hey, Chiquita,
Dream-Of-Getting-High, stealing
your employer's time, mixing it up
with tender-hearted
poets,
assuaging
consciences
for having electricity and computers in the workplace
while other folks
are
.....dying
...........-and that rack of maxed-out
.....credit cards
to buy your sweet pubescent,
overly
expectant, Pavlov'd American Kids
the latest
cut
CD---but see, it's ok,
because you posted it. The PICTURE
shows
....From The Tree Of