Tactful Boy

It’s not a compliment when people call your poems masturbatory.

But aren't all of the bodily organs blessed of God?
Literary strategies are at best compensatory.

All I want to do is tell the sultry
truth. Sure, I could project it into some persona-Nimrod,
because it's not a compliment when people call your poems masturbatory.

Nimrod built the Tower of Babel—million-story!
It ascended all the way to heaven, like Jack’s beanstalk, so, of course, God
had to smite it. But that was at best a compensatory

act, because the damage had already been done—the motor lorry
had already crashed through the crepe facade—
all possible allegations of your poems being masturbatory

proved beyond doubt, to their not-small glory!
You’re proud of yourself. You put your skinny or broad
butt in a chair and penned a few compensatory

songs that any Jane, Dick, or Harry
can identify with, and maybe they’ll applaud!
It’s not a compliment when people call your poems masturbatory,
but literary strategies are at best compensatory.

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).

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 stabbed through the heart.
What if Anna Karenina and Nastasya Filippovna had been poets?
I do love Dickinson and Rossetti!

Anxiety

This situation may be no-win,

but everyone I meet here is my friend.
Why do I feel so jerked out of my skin?

Always riding the edge of a hairpin
curve, I have no end
of anxiety, fearing this situation may be no-win.

Always wearing a fake grin
on my face, habit that lets me blend
into the scenery—beige tinge on my skin.

But whoever thinks I have a soul of tin
should know I’m hiding woes that‘d rend
cast-iron gates; says I’ll never win

know I couldn’t possibly begin
to list the million times I’ve tried to mend
this treed-fox heart beneath my skin.

It’s because I have no choice but go all-in
and I’ve borrowed every cent you had to lend,
and because this situation may be no-win,
that there’s no way I don’t feel jerked out of my skin!

I'm So Glad I'm Up in Heaven at Last

When I walk, I keep my chin forward of my feet.

If I don’t, I’ll have a dangerous spill.
My feet’ll be in the air. The birds will tweet.

Walking through all of this most amazing day’s sweet
opportunities—opportunities to get killed!
When I walk, I keep my chin forward of my feet.

My chin is made of steel, you know. When the street
slugs me in the middle of my vaudeville
act, my feet ain’t in the air, at least. The birds don’t tweet.

Could be I’ll break my wrists, though, complet-
ly wrecking my nice mandolin quadrille. Still,
when I walk, I'll keep my chin forward of my feet.

Don’t know when, but soon, the white sheet
will cover up my face. What’s left of me will fill
a tight space bereft of air, where no birds tweet;

but that’ll be the day when our souls meet,
before we tumbled down the hill, says Jack, says Jill.
When I walk I keep my chin forward of my feet.
My feet will be in the sky. The birds will tweet.

My Pet Ontology

George, my mother’s big Persian,

older than me. By the time I became a teenager,
boy, was that cat smelly!

Sylvia, beautiful black short-hair.
When she died, my dad
buried her in a towel.

Winifred, another black.
She hated other cats
and lived in the incinerator.

Agnes, the only dog.
Couldn’t be potty-trained,
so my dad drowned her.

Henry, a vacant-eyed black-and-white.
I kicked him off my bed one night,
and I think he went and got locked in a panel truck.

Harriet, an ornery tortoiseshell.
Had her litter on
an old stump under the bushes.

One of Harriet’s kittens—Rodney. The people who came
and took him brought him back emaciated, scared. 
You could drape Rodney over chairs like a slinky.

Henrietta,
my sister’s favorite,
eviscerated by dogs.

Walter, Henrietta’s kitten,
black and white like her mother.
We mistook two little tufts of fur for testicles.

Flora, sveldt tabby my dad called Rugga-Carpeta.
Those free-ranging Denver canines ripped her tail off,
and she died in convulsions on the kitchen floor.

Julius—Orange Julius, my mother called him.
One day when she was dying, I realized my mother was afraid
Julius would lie on her chest and suffocate her.

I believe she was relieved
when I had Julius 
removed from the house.

Love Is a Hum

I’m real nervous, but it sure is fun!

I had to trade my guitar for a bed.
Love is a hum.

Ready to swill rum,
I’m in such a state of dread—
I’m real nervous, but it sure is fun!

It’s a big thrill, but it’s kind of a bum
rap too, me with my feet of lead,
feeling the hum

of love in my veins,
recalling times I pled
for deliverance from this merciless fun—

all my thoughts focussed on the one
I love, my precious newlywed,
hearing the hum

of their voice, their soft kiss burning
my lips—NOT like a beast unfed.
I’m real nervous, but it sure is fun!
Love is a hum.