Advantages
I relax so intensely, my skin snaps.
This badgering rationality is enough
to steam my eyelids. I practice
knuckle-cracking, chain smoking,
coffee drinking, pill-popping ways
to take it easy. I idle so high, I can’t come
to a full stop. I could never stay
between the lines. I’m the root of all evil,
yet I pump the gas. I never intended
to evolve into this jaw-clenching, nail biting,
heart breaking, ulcer-burning son-of-a-bitch.
I’m totally percolated
and the pressure’s gonna kill me
if you’re lucky.
I bake the bread of woe and lick
my fingers clean but I pay the tip,
don’t I? Don’t I! I’m a back stabbing, nit-picking,
road-raging mama’s boy and I dare you,
I double-dog-dare you, to love me enough
before I explode
or very simply fall to pieces.
Figuratively
This poem’s gonna get in your face.
I swear - it’s gonna start with you.
This poem is potent.
It’s gonna step up behind you
and show you right where it’s at.
Make you lay down and beg
for more. It will definitely
have it’s way with you.
Shove you right back in your seat
and you’ll want it
just like that. You simply
can’t do without it; and you know it.
You’ll make excuses; be driven, to see it,
more and more. This poem will
make it so very hard
to just say no,
and mean it. Your eyes will be compelled
to follow this poem down and down,
bit by bit, to it’s final, trembling line
and just when you think it’s over,
it’ll reach up beneath you
and make you wish, so very much,
for just a little - - bit - - more.
Juno Trumps The Empress
I listen intently to hear myself inside.
Instinct will guide the way they say.
Trust in my intuition - trust.
Rely on inner truth and beauty.
I seek my unique, personal vision within.
I am inspired, enlightened,
emotionally alive.
I am fully developed and ripe
to pick. I offer myself sincerely.
I am creation, illumination,
true worth. Look here; I am grace.
I approach each situation
with expertise and efficiency.
I am the prize. I hone the edge.
I serve stability and structure
on pretty paper doilies.
I grant freedom, fortune
and fame. I pinch the crease. I fulfill
the images of wildest dreams.
I dry torrents of tears on my back.
I lick the wrinkle. I suck the galaxy up
between my tingling thighs and spit it back in the gutter.
I am the exotic, erotic exposure
of negatives. I bleed through my skin like sweat.
I fly over hungry heads through breathless brains.
I am so alive I could scream and scream.
I primly zipper trousers. I taste burning
wants on my fingertips.
I can have. I can handle.
I can hold.
Symphony Of Selves
On the inside bottom down I sound
like grumbling fog through alley’s dark
and puddle rain. Back seat vinyl,
chocolate melting, finger licking,
buttons popping. Sounding deeper
still and down, the sounds of
shiny, champagne glasses, sugared
crystal lemons squeezing.
Sounds like jars and bowls
of gold bells blowing, tall grass
shooshing, pretty April breezes.
Chanting mystic melodies,
empty pockets yawning, snowflakes
sifting new night snow.
From underbelly inward down you sound
like church pews bumping uglies,
screaming dogs in big, red barns.
Croupy coughing, bonnet stamping
noises know you, do you.
Come down sounds of back wood splitting,
gavel cracking, corn field booking. Your innards
sound like anthem belching, tires squealing,
hog callin’ good ol’ boys. And drinking down sound
even deeper than you dare,
the daily dirge of door nails
dying very slow deliberate deaths.
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