anthem

we pledge allegiance
to each other, our state
of-just-the-two-of-us,

hands on each other’s
heart, we cocoon, snuggle,
it’s always warm in our land

like Camelot, never rains,
always in agreement, every
votes never tied, for we are

a colorless world, only one,
the color of the day, is what
we feel, create, and believe

we sing only duets, our music,
only perfect pitch harmonies,
this our anthem, sung twice daily

when the sun should rise,
and when it should set, but,
since our sun never leaves

we do it for pure pleasure

our hips fit,
our hands entwine,
fingers unlockable,
laughing twogether,
“mighty fine”
she’s wearing the Levi’s,
I’m wearing the Strauss,
and it looks like we
been stitched together

her hand slides
easy in,
to my back pocket,
smiling
she announces,
we like, fit,
like a wedding announcement,
we fit like,
like an old country song

we see a movie
with our crew,
lights go up,
everybody loved it,
she secretly, her nose
wrinkly wrinkles,
one too long car chase,
my eyes are grinning
from corner to corner,
knowing she’s knowing
i’m all in, full in her
with agreement total

they took us to a tailor,
suits we required,
made to measure,
fit as perfect, as
perfect we be, as
perfect as we were,
matching customized,
white shirts, black tie,
shiny black shoes,
for matching caskets,
everyone saying
we just fit together,
even now,
crying ‘so long,’
for so long,
see you guys
so soon,
you two
fit,
like an old country song, one that everyone knows, all the words.

there are so many
types of pockets,
especially for jeans.
my favorite is the “ticket pocket,”
that little pocket stitched
inside a bigger front pocket,
maybe also called a
“watch” pocket,
supposedly
a cowboy designation
for safeguarding
their chained pocket watch receptacle.

who ya kidding?

anyway, a second naming
more to my liking:

seems cowboys put their train ticket where they could easily
retrieve them as the conductor conducted himself properly,
asking each passenger after every stop to show his ticket.

so it came to be,
Levi gave us pockets of variety,
durable, baggy ones to
carry our jewels comfortably,
one for tightly ticket embracing,
and further inspired that
sewn on the hat of
every railroad conductor,
a russian motto,
Trust but Verify.

I myself use the ticket pocket for
my keys,
which in any other jeans pocket, movement
causes cruel and unusual pain,
but not if that huge bunch of jangling
instruments of torture are tightly tucked
in their own prison interior,
incapable of doing hot yoga or
any other stupid exercise requiring
Bo jingling jangling movement

Just don’t you dare ask me
what the purpose of each key be,
it is just a tortured secret for men
in the private parts of their soul,
to confess that keys carried
for three houses ago,
are a metallic proofs that men
are indeed as dumb
as women think they are...

show me a rusted lock somewhere,
I got an hour to try ‘em all

woman asks a why-oh-why
while-I’m-driving-interrogatory,

seeing that tears are rolling down
old poet’s face as we transverse
these United States,

on I-80, Heading to San Francisco,
over the George Washington Bridge,
commencing in Teaneck, New Jersey,
2,906 miles, not including getting lost.

Are you sad for any reason particular?
Are we lost already?

weeping for my country, for with every mile,
see amity and wisdom disappearing,
out the open window,
both by wind taken,
both forsaken,

our route is clear,
but I see what
I most fear, we are not lost,
but my country,
our poor country
is,
everywhere good people,
desperately seeking mercy now!

many women do yoga.
many men do ***.

women prefer,
ah, never mind,
you know how that ends!

No?

If we draw a
Venn diagram,
one circle, yoga,
the other, ***,

in the middle,  
overlapping sector,
is the
Venn Zen Intersextion

if my true name you uncovered,
and called me out by same,
without spasm-ing,
first middle and the lost at-last

you, like me would wonder
what the heck my parentals
were imbibing
at such a joyous occasion, my
cursed naming ceremony

but thanks to them,
I’ll be buried with a full head
of fair thicker hair;
that’s why parents say:

“**** good thing you kids don’t get to pick your parents names!”

I am nearing seventy,
my woman, has me, surpassed.
that hallmark of difference,
is a race I can’t catch her up,
so always on the lookout for ways,
ways to equalize the difference.

laying in bed on a beautiful
Tuesday, (renamed Twosday)
romantic muse-marveling how
an ordinary weekday came to be
so spectacular, the senses are
keening, preening, as the warm
loving feelings upping with sun,
rising, and my eyes welling tears,
of youthful gratefulness and love

so
I propose we get matching tattoos
to lock in this storied moment historical.

She smiles.
Stealthy moves as if to bed exit,
when with a sudden twist of fate,
reverses with one of the three pillows,
her in-bed-reading-backup-accompanists,
no pretense, she tries to beat me to near-death.

Later.
She inquires.
“What tattoo exactly did I have in mind?”

Till Death Do Us Part
(inside a heart, optional).

She snorts.
“That can be arranged, if you get more deranged!”

from now on my passing thoughts of loving celebration,
gonna just keep on passing by, except for maybe, just,
tattoos of chocolates, a money saving device, so many
occasions useful, now you understand this poem’s entitlement.

Ogdiddynash