con-none-drum-roll please

why do “people” wear
really short ,
really tight, skirts,
then spend the rest of the day
tugging,

tugging repeatedly,

on an invisible schedule,

to con us into lowering
the temperature
in them
overheated classrooms?

ogdiddy

the doctor cautioned me…

no rough S?x my boy, your coeur très ancien,
ain’t up to the task, in fact, i urge you to forgo
the goings on you love to write about, leave them
words on the page, six to eight inches (!)  from the
tippy part of your…nose; for distance makes the heart
grow fonder, life longer, when you ticker gets that
‘lost that loving feeling’, keep it lost for now, cause
I no longer make home visitations and cancelled,
I did, the refills on your ****** scrip, keep your loving
confined to the twenty six alpa-bets, so you grow
old, well, alive, cursing my name repeatedly with
a strong *******, and I’m sure He’ll be listening,
cause I know He appreciates a **** good poem!

she inquires why I write so many poems,
easy comes reply:
It gives me a fantastic living,
it makes and gives, each poem,
a calculation, a reconciliation
of who I am...a miner of the
mineral wealth in my veins

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

“still on the fence
about you being
a mortal man
or a God.”

well thanks for that,
and did I mention
it’s a fence style called
picket you put me on?

which I can attest,
makes me feel both
majestic & definitely humanistic,
cause a picket up one’s ****,
is proof still that this man,
unlike god,
has not lost his “touch”
so to speak...

twenteesventh.
you write of dismembered leaves,
enhaloed lust(***)
pains too sweet because they’re youthfully incomplete,
using incontrovertible idiocies like
dry rain droplets shining like sunlight,
edible goodbye cheerios,
edible didactics, teaching “frosted flakys”
poetic methadone methodology,
poems hats with rhyming lyrics  
that taste like that burnt eyelids colored
a blood stained mustard yellow, (yum),
beyond burger veggie based satyrs,
the happy gladness of sadness,
reversible rivers flowing heavenwards,
***** *******, you want an
infernal cataclysm...

really?

dechambered hearts, ventricular mysteries,
brains wearing wooly sport jacket helmets
and other Olsonian beauties,
like I write with succinct passion,
me, who gets eaten alive by buggers saying
“too long,” “too long,” “needed a mid-poem napt”

non-lexical non-commonsensical ecumenical hysterical
chemical verbal reactionaries
and then you wonder why

PEOPLE ******* HATE POETRY?

jes kiddin’ a leetle

preface.  
majestic adjectives of contrary harmonies,
adverbs in adversity that modify our satisfactions,
gut punch our eyes, scramble the taste buds,
now inoperable, incapacitated to distinguish
what is disturbed - what is sweet - what is impossible.
my days ending is nearer to my god than thee,
the crumblings of what I’ve got left,
stale panko crumbs,
here come they in 1000 radium-tipped projectiles of
serious humorous self-destruction,
gifted to you few itinerant followers
brave enough to follow me into the deeps of
radioactive incomprehension,
in no particular disorders
a thousand times