Two hands, which kept me from danger,
Two hands, which bade me know love;
Two eyes, which spoke to my own,
Twin beams, in the sky above.

One mind, which gave me my freedom,
One mind unselfishly waits;
While one heart, for me it is beating;
And one life: my opening gate.

Hands know love-
Clasped in beloveds hands; tight enough
Lips know love-
When the hungry other takes them; almost rough
Eyes know love-
When love's battered remnants lie everywhere
Nose knows love-
When it breathes that close rarefied air
Hair knows love-
When the strands mix about their face
Hearts know love-
When the body finds it; anyplace
Love shouldn't ever be considered rare-
When once you've felt it's form, so near.

your two eyes worship some evening farther sky
than the four winds around us, breathing with our sighs
perfumed taste tantalizes, in metered measure
as waves of warm skin rise, toward strong pleasure
only where the sacred kiss touches desire;
hunger where your quickened heart ascend even higher
as my lingering love gives voice to your song,
waves lapping restless shores, all night long:
then a still, white dove lies, with entrancing smile
underneath the sly moon's beaming magic wiles.

I can't tell if any fleas
Have smaller fleas upon them;
But I can feel that on these fleas
Are giant jaws; and toothsome.

These fleas are opportunists, sure,
They hop from leg, to arm, to floor;
Each leaves behind a bit of gore:
There's nothing smaller I abhor.

They're nearly invisible and yet
Upon me I can feel them set;
And tear out great big chunks of- Nyet!
A bigger fiend, I've never met.

I was gagging on poetry
And nothing could help:

I was gagging on poetry
So they let me lay my head
On Emily's desk
And her inkwell spilled.

I was gagging on poetry
And they covered me up
With Whitman's army blanket
On which I promptly threw up.

I was gagging on poetry
And the Poet Laureate
Sent me a get well bouquet
Of forget me knots.

I was gagging on poetry
And all my poems
Kept getting rejected
For Selective Service.

I was gagging on poetry
And they performed
The Heimlich maneuver

And up came
Twelve autobiographical
Sketches of poets

Thirteen anthologies

Three missing manuscripts

Two thesaurus books

One rhyming dictionary

And my good luck eraser.

Come to the Psychopath's Junction
For a time you may never forget;
We've got mystery and ****** and mayhem,
For some hours that you'll never regret.

Come to the Psychopath's Junction
We have tours and stories to chill;
And we'll push you down steps to the basement,
And there we'll forcefeed you some swill.

Come to the Psychopath's Junction
Where we have all new torture devices,
And we'll tie you up, and then use them on you;
And won't have to think about it twice.

Come to the Psychopath's Junction
Where we'll do terrible things just to you;
And if you survive and miraculously escape-
You can invite your friends to come too!

They don't want to hear it
These minutes of a life; this synopsis
That could only make sense to you
Even if it doesn't.
It's your baby, your Alcatraz, your Auschwitz;
Don't expect any sympathy
And then they won't bare their own scars
Of things you haven't even dreamed of.

Dig a hole and bury that pain in secret,
Like a cat buries its dung,
In the dead of night.
Paste on a fake, plastic smile
In a bright color, early next morning.
Life is shallow, because we are selfish
In our weakness-
How about pink?