Woman ****** fuzz does not puzzle me,
but stumps  men near and far.

They claim hair is best on Bonobos;
I view that a lesser stance.

There are no ****** Rottweilers tethered to steel poles
outside  basement taverns.

No emaciated men  picking **** mites
on  their  faces or  women staring
blankly into the fog of their day.

Not a bad smell, a dead bird on a lawn,
an old person wearing a sweater too tight
or a poor kid with a cleft palate; not in Euphoria.

It is hard to say father;
the thought of you stumbles through me when I see
a Gerber baby food jar or a wooden pop crate.
Once you came to mind when I saw a Polish flag
on TV; that is humorous because
the only Pole I know is a pale man at the gym
whose left eye is shaped like a rotten pear.
Do you still burn your fingers when you
fall asleep smoking in a recliner?  I hope
you still do not trim your fingernails while
sitting on the toilet stool; that seems so un-American.
Today is your eighty-fourth birthday;
I hope wherever you are you do not think of me.

There are days I know I am alive
only because I feel the weight on my
feet as I rise to have a new day accept me.
It  is when I read  poems of Louise Gluck or
Sharon Olds that I realize I am merely one half

living.

I will bake you a raspberry creme cannoli
if you bite my earlobes nimbly;
I dream your skin tastes of
lemon.

After you killed me back in the dirt
Got revived, Strung out, all split apart
Shipped aboard and slung into space
Sure it wasn't the plan but in any case
You'll never be far from my heart

And though this new voyage
Is further than the last
I've gone out and come home before
Though space it changes
As each moments past
It seems now theres less to explore

So there I sit
in my captains chair
My body a vessel so sound
What waits in space
An illustrious race
To search out some new solid ground

But out i must go
For to sit all alone
Can drive a certain kind of man mad
Its true I'm doomed
to be always that kind
But I guess I'm also quite glad

Though to search umungst
dead ends unending
May be a life long chore
Romance is a dance
And I'll be moving my feet
In faith there's still something more

From far you gaze out the backwood haze
A gohst not to be named
But I'll fondly recall
That first love of mine
That taught my heart how to fall

One day while ******* beer from the curb into the street
you were hit by a Toyota. Split your forehead like
a cleaved melon.  You are officially a gimp;
your left eyeball wanders & you live in
June of 1986 & talk to the radio.
Hope this is read to you,
your friends wept
years back.