On the Davenport

That’s the sound of Mississippi.
That’s the sound of your inhibitions.
That’s the sound of Southern Baptist denial.


And they say the Catholics have it the worst.
No.


        ~ ~ ~


Because you run the gamut of indulgence,
a drag racer flying, yellow dashed line
dead center of your blue Mustang convertible.

Either that or numbed from whichever whatever
that guy handed you for twenty bucks
at the pub two hours before.


        ~ ~ ~


Now you lay spread-eagled,
top buttons on your jeans undone and white
t-shirt hiked back over your neck
in the bluish light of your flat screen TV;
leather sofa as nesting area, ass pounded
into cheap cushions enough to belie
the furniture’s secondhand charm.


        ~ ~ ~


In another part of the world,
banana slugs creep over everything yellowish.
In another part of the world,
sloth hang back downward living salad days.


        ~ ~ ~


You look over my shoulder often.
I angle my screen away from strangers at work.
You never edit; glance quickly as you walk by.
I sigh when everything comes into balance.
You wouldn’t understand my poetry.


        ~ ~ ~


Then I’m there with you, the you of constant
obsession over everything but me;
that convenience good face availability
when more important deeds avail themselves


        ~ ~ ~


You speak young rebellious punk.
Say there is a knife in the kitchen big enough
to kill me, or yourself. Juggle bits and pieces
around as though arranging for a conquest.
Say you hate yourself and why won’t anyone just
serve some love, and I know the difference
in tonight and tomorrow night
is merely shape of the listener’s lips,
color of eyes, lift of brow and style
of everything else.


So chic
of you to choose a new outfitter daily.
So apropos
to sully the ones who come through for you.
See my name
on the sign out sheet: I’ve served enough.

Letter to Fabulous Geriatric Lifestyles (and porn)

So the walleye were biting and the meal was July 4^th fare. You were contemplative over me back then — Did the barbeque taste itself?

How many times can you sing Marsey Dotes and Dosey Dotes and little lambs eat ivy, before your transmission seizes, mucked with too much grease and dirty face. Dirty words, dirty underwear, dirty socks, dirty thoughts and dirty second thoughts: lead with your bad leg.

There is nothing about the holiday that makes it anymore sacred in Texas than anywhere else in the country. If anything Boston has the Pops and fireworks over the Charles and that location, if anything (with Paul Revere horsemen trotting through the streets) would be my vote if I wanted something to appear superior.

However, it is not my desire to heckle your efforts these past forty-five years, the hot chains of oil derricks through the funniest joke of 1985—well howdy-doo to that. If you really believe you are powerful enough to just decide the world is flat and walk one foot in front of the other around the perimeter, go there baby, you go girl – yo yo mama – and she’s got back.

No, that is not my desire. In fact, I don’t want anything. You’ve surely read a bit and when you see the scrawled Hancock at the bottom you will shake and grit your teeth and once again miraculously make me disappear, poof – yes, that I am — a tried and true poof, and I poof off to you, papa-style mama-chic – que sera, sera.

Warmest,
John

PS/I have your favorite sweater, and mukluks.

PPS/I lied about the porn.