OLD POEMS FOR A CURRENT STATE OF MIND

White Buick Car Driver, I hate you

His white Buick has its
hazards on,
driving down an Idaho freeway
…and this affronts my
right-lane courtesy.
And although I’ve made motions
to the fat man
in the blue shirt with a crew cut and red mustache,
he ignores me.
Must liken me to
a crabby out-of-state
Driver
And despite my growing annoyance, I can’t stop
staring at those flashing lights –
like with women who have god-awful
boob jobs and low-cut tops to accentuate
their involuntary hatchet jobs
that brag with each non-bounce.
It’s an unconscious dare… and I fall for it every time.

There’s no exit for miles; I want to roll down my window
and yell at passing cars,
“What the fuck is that idiot in the white Buick doing?”
But the thing about driving
1,371 miles by yourself is it
limits your shared experiences… and fully-effective hand gestures.

It’s been almost an hour and he paces me.

Maybe he’ll blow a tire,
Or run out of gas
And I am almost ready to even see a deer sacrificed…
As long as it stops him.

The landscape passes me by –
like reading a comic book in the Lourve


Although, I am certain,
no one that stupid ever goes to museums.



Appetite

Wears it – She –
like a table for two
eight ball in the corner pocket
stone in my shoe.

Plays it – She –
like scrabble for the blind (outside the lines)
curved at the base and touched behind the spine
a coveted sprocket that lies and confesses
with each eyelash bat
and nipple flutter.

Loses it – She –
like a grocery store receipt of her markdowns and clearances
sixth martini under an hour
gumball machine trove.

She’ll climb on the table
and kick silverware at anyone who says
Hungry – they still are –





The Perfect Kiss

The perfect kiss involves
Your lips and mine –
an eight-course dine
of:
A puckered pounce.
A tongue trounce.
A lip gnaw – taken raw.
An upper lid lick
(or bottom)
--your pick.
A tender suck
A gluttonous pluck.


And when we’ve taken in this
luscious feast
A tongue banquet, to say the least.

Our lips part-
Our sighs collide --
A signal to start ---
All your lips provide.

Visiting my neck…
My chest…
The buffet below…
(waiting, impatiently,
for its hello).

I welcome the calories
That comes with this guilt….
That makes me bloom
Then makes me wilt
For when your lips start to avert
I know,
right then,
It’s time for desert.