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IN THIS VERSION

She keeps him on
ice, like an
illegal pistol
in a safe
deposit box,
to finger and
cock and then
wrap back
in soft flannel.
He's there
for her
for her, ready
for her fingers.
She moves closer,
strokes his
pearl handle,
Bonnies up to his
Clyde, tongues
his cross hairs.
He's cool, he's
hard ready
for her to,
with just the
touch of her
skin, explode,
leave only a
white puff the
scent of him
on her skin



JACK THE RIPPER GOES TO THE MALL

He's not suspicious
in a rain coat. Forty
husbands in turned
up London Fogs loll
near the rubber
plants close to the
purple and jade
fountain. But only
Jack drifts into
lives of teenage
girls with their
mini skirts, their
tongues on pale
ice cream jump
starts his longing.
In the foodcourt
he watches light
glean on the
Japanese cleavers.
The Polish sausages
swell and sizzle,
drip nearby, split.
He's off to Macy's
where the mannequins
without hair down
there or lips or a
nipple that moves
are flawless in their
quiet coldness
and sets out to turn
a woman with blood
and sweat and hair
ruining what he wants
to mold, will use
his fingers to make
voiceless, perfect
as marble



ROBERT JOHNSON


king of the delta blues



Have mercy,
save poor Bob if
you please

Hellbound,
raging,

An unschooled hobo
poetry spilled from

fire and fury

thumbing his nose

rambling and dusting
his broom