Triolets

I'm Ready

What if Anna Karenina and Nastasya Filippovna had been poets,

like Emily Dickinson and Christina Rossetti?
Can’t say we would never know it
without Leo and Fyodor to show it—
bloody red spaghetti-
sauce on the tracks; scorned woman murdered.
What if Anna Karenina and Nastasya Filippovna had been poets?
I do love Dickinson and Rossetti.

Retirement
I may give up on the world liking me,

but I like myself just fine—
on my Lake Isle of Innisfree,
tending my hive of wild honey bees,
I brew hogsheads of dandelion wine.
No one writes or visits me.
I may give up on the world liking me,
but I like myself just fine.

Paranoia

I sometimes think everyone thinks I’m an asshole,
but I don’t think that’s really true exactly.
A whole train of brainy thinks in tow,
thinking that everyone thinks I’m an asshole.
A whole wallet-roll
of thinks rolled up compactly—
thinking that everyone hates my jellyroll—
but I don’t think they really do exactly.

Gladness
Registering how glad I am,
walked onto my sunny cold back porch
barefoot with my bathrobe on,
registering how glad I am.
I’ll shine, of course I’ll shine
brightly like a prayer in church.
Registering how glad I am,
walked onto my sunny cold back porch.

Can I Say?
Can I say
how much my life
delights me, say
it in a triolet—
this illegal day
sowing purple loosestrife,
say
it in a triolet?

Generosity
Generosity is of birth, 
generation, and gendering.

No matter what your life is worth,
generosity is of birth—
the greenest thing on this brown earth.
Whatever you’re surrendering,
generosity is of birth,
generation, and gendering.

Gods Be Thanked
If you know you’re pretty, you know
you have eternal life.
God would not have given you a soul
if they hadn’t thought you were pretty, you know.
You love, your love will grow,
loving your trouble and strife.
You’re both pretty, so you know
you have eternal life.

Leaf Turning
The oak leaves are yellow and green,
maple leaves dull orange.
Autumn’s first frost is seen
in the oak leaves, yellow and green.
The basswood’s leaves are still ALL green,
like the rowan tree’s by the garage.
The oak leaves are yellow and green.
Clusters of rowan-berry orange!

Mockingbird

That mild September day
the mockingbird was singing far and wide
fool's gold love of that day,
that mild September day
before you went away
when we gathered in the cotton side by side,
that mild September day
the mockingbird was singing far and wide.




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TRIGGER WARNING!!! 
EROTIC TRIOLETS - 
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An Ontology
Hooves, tootsies, dogs?—No.
Cadence, cadency, rhyme, lilt,
measure, music, swing, beat,
pattern, structure, nuance, flow:
that’s the ontology of feet.
Pretty maids lined up in a row?
Hooves, tootsies, dogs?—No.
Ghungroo in the house God built.

The Awful Dreadful Snake
I love girls, they’re all over this world.
If it’s a girl, I even love their feet and penis.
Knowing that the morning star was hurled
down from on high for wanting to be a girl.
In heaven, there is no-more-heinous
a sin than to lounge with you toes curled
around the fell snake that comes between us.
I love girls, they’re all over this world.
If it’s a girl, I even love their feet and penis.
     Big-ups, Iggy Pop

Blessed Relief
It’s nice to write about my horniness

poems that are just plain masturbatory—
always on the side of blessedness,
nothing but the bony resonance
of engendered maleness and femaleness.
So I’ve decided to turn state’s evidence.—
It’s nice to write about my horniness
poems that are just plain masturbatory.

Winter's Weeds (I Danced My Rondeau)
I danced my rondeau at the Y last night
(had Flex Room A, with mirrors, to myself).
Putting any demons to flight,
rhythm coming out all right,
stepping the sprightly 8/8 beat—
dancing on the Polar Shelf.
I danced my rondeau at the Y last night night
(had Flex Room A, with mirrors, to myself).

Naked Yoga
Doing naked yoga, I serenade the street!

Is that more of a performance than you wanted?
I’m practicing ballet moves, my cute feet
raised in turn, face pale as a beet,
loving belting my own cant-
icle, doing naked yoga: I moon the street!
Is that more of a performance than you wanted?

Feet Selfies
It's cold as the proverbial witch's tit;
but I took photos of my feet in the sunny window,
trying to make the best of it.
Nope, it doesn't sting a bit—
the cold, I mean. But there's a crescendo
of panic when I realize the gist of it:
It's cold as the proverbial witch's tit,
but I took photos of my feet in the sunny window.

Back Porch
Late October, almost naked.
Will this be my last day on the porch?
(I do so like going naked!)
Late October, almost naked,
waiting for someone to say, “Hey kid,
it’s cold enough—windy!—that the sun won’t scorch
you!” Late October, almost naked.
Will this be my last day on the porch?


Triolet Triplet: Going Into the Sex Business at Sixty-Six
1
Could I go into the sex business
as a sixty-six-year-old trans guy?
Would my cava get more fizz-ness
if I worked in the sex business?
You might say I’m vicious,
and how I ain’t, I can’t see why
if I go into the sex business
as a sixty-six-year-old trans guy.

2
First of all, will I have to take hormones?
Gonna keep my penis, but do I need to get tits?
Well, probably, yes, but let me try it once
without any estrogen.
Mainly, I’ll just need my camera phone
to take videos of myself while I masturbate.
So, no, I might not need to take hormones
(But tits’d be a benefit, I admit!).

3
OK, I tried it, and I like what I see!
My gray-haired face is pleasant.
Mainly, my feet are pretty!
Yeah, I tried it, and I like what I see.
It might be neat to go online with me.
People will say, “There’s a cute pheasant!”
Yup, I tried it, and I like what I see!
My gray-haired face is fetching and pleasant.