April 29, 2005

I am going to make it through this year if it kills me

Three poems from twilight of the male ego, by klipschutz:

Ghazal of the North American Dream

Dinner, the porch, the couch, a book -- here we are,
together, awake, shoes off, wealthy in cats and silence.

The dirty smell goes all the way to the top. Backswing
and dogleg are fighting words in a Kennebunkport breeze.

Families live in deserts and springs with pride, horsefolk,
human billboard T-shirts. Reach out and leave a message.

Chances are it's nothing. Chances are you're nobody's lucky
penny. Don't take it so personal, she says to everyone.

Wichita is all over the news, white trash littering the sidewalk
over prayer in the womb, radiating His tough infinate love.

The rich get thin on the fat of the poor. Too many cookbooks,
not enough Indians. One man, one vote, two out, nobody on.


from The Love Poems of Miles Davis

Your eyes, blue as a motherfucker
Your lips, soft as a motherfucker
Your hair, long and satiny as
a motherfucker

* *

We made love, I got my nut off like a motherfucker

She comes out with she thinks Billy Dee's not
half bad to look at,

so I slap her silly as a motherfucker

* *

Some sorry-assed white boy calls about an
interview

then I call back Lurlene, who's into health food
and that vegetarian shit, and always helps me out

And tits as big and nice as a
motherfucker


Off-Season

Tiny propellers whirr in the top
to the sugar dispenser. A European cigarette
shrinks from hand to hand. Adulterers
make no bones about what they are going to do
when the check comes. Across town,
on a small patch of civic lawn, a child
juggles Going Out of Business, Help Wanted,
and Protected by Smith & Wesson signs.
He tosses coins at passersby with his free hand.
Up and down the block, cash registers
with expired service contracts undercharge.
An early arrival, who walks and cough and spends,
is waiting on the steps for the volunteer librarian.

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