The mailman dropped a letter in our box
for Mrs. Tovia Durkan who has not lived

at our address for forty four years
and is now buried in a small cemetery

surrounded by a black wrought
iron fence and glorious mums,

we are now the caretakers of
a letter sent to a Jewish widow

leaving us to feel responsible
to attend the Bat Mitzvah of

12-year-old Sophie Bravermann;
do we bring a gift?

If poems were ***
then,I wouldn't be a ******
i would caress the letters
fix a foreplay with title
i would literally **** the words
to give birth to soulful sentences
if poems were ***
I wouldn't be ******,still.

i am innocent
i am not a ******
i have not been stripped of my innocence
i have been stripped
and teased
and pleasured
i'd love to see the look on a republicans face when i say
*** is fun

Poetry,
like ***,
momentarily
destroys
the misery
of the world.
  ~mce