In a grapefruit box bassinet a squabble
of flesh, side room a four-year-old with
forehead on her brother’s shoulder-he sleeps
an arm around a one-eyed sock monkey;
Pamper on the boy’s ***. TV sounds like
a  goose, telephone jangles, answers
a mama, she say hello Mr., not glad
you called.

"From Voice Of A ******* Dog"

You watch at a distance from the safety
of  your green and  white lawn chair
as I lick  my *******. You probably
do not think I know my colors;
an incorrect assumption.

Green is for the Irish, communists
prefer red,  blue is the sky on good
days  and you are, as most
men, yellow. I am not on
that spectrum.

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.