Eyes of the Beholder

"My true love hath my heart and I have his."
                           —Sir Philip Sidney

I wish that you could wear my eyes as yours,
And with contortions, bare before your glass,
Examine with a long and lingering pass
Each crack and crevice—all your naked pores; 
Observing every coiled inch of coarse 
And curly hair...each stroked and handled ass-
et...tidbits licked and flicked...the dark pink gas
Valve winking at the finger that taps, then bores. . . . . .
For were you so to see your every part,
With these two eyes—so eager to record
The paradise behind each teaseful blink—
You'd see beyond the mere vanilla kink:
You'd see what I in words could not impart:
You'd see just how completely you're adored.


Playlist Pathétique

I play your track again. It hits a scratch
And skips—a scratch and skips—a scratch and skips—
And skips forward through the scratches patch.—
It plays, then hits another scratch and trips
Backward—and trips backward—and trips backward—
It drives me fucking nuts! I hit STOP. “Stop!”
I say aloud.—I get shellacked and lacquered.
Memories fall away. I let them drop.

I play no tracks while I record another
With balance all a-tilt, with foamy burps,
With clumsy stumbles, sloppy sips and slurps.
I pass out, wake up,—find I didn’t bother
To press RECORD!  And then I press it—PLAY:
Your scratched-up track begins another day.


You Have No New Messages

I wake up, bowl up some Pops, log onto gmail,
And focus on that spot that’s gonna show
The inbox tally……God! It runs so slow
When all ya wanna see is one new email!
The bright screen burns my bloodshot eyeballs’ gaze.
It burps the gmail page in bits and chunks.
I see the number,—same as yesterday’s.
My hope—like yesterday’s hope—slumps and flunks.
I knew that number’d prob’ly leave me flat,
And junk the day before it really started,
(And justify that rope I shopping-carted),
But I had to check. And while you prob’ly chat
With guys, I’ll check my inbox, broken hearted,
In thirty minutes…and thirty after that……


An Occurence in Tilbury Town*

Poor, broken-hearted Abel Spleen
   Beneath a streetlight casts a shadow.
He'd hoped to find a sunny, green 
      Elysian meadow.

Barely a man, at sweet sixteen
   He's gone where none who love him can follow.
He drank his cup of bitter teen
      In one large swallow.

Where he has gone,—to what demesne,—
   (If we in life are ever rooted),
Is all conjecture very mean, 
      And much disputed.  

He's gone, and yet he still is seen
   Suffering love's disdain and panging:
Poor, broken-hearted Abel Spleen
      Is dead weight hanging.


*Tilbury Town  E.A. Robinson's fictional American Town where shit happens.