TFTD:

"Robert Frost."

The name almost too perfect for the Great Poet of New Hampshire.
Like "Kris Kringle" or "Thelonious Monk."
His real name should be Clarence Higginbotham, something like that.

I remember him fumbling with his papers at the Kennedy inaugural.
As the patriarch Isaac said to Leonard Cohen,
"I was nine years old."

Modern Love

Meet my artificial friends
(The only ones I have)
They're programmed to intend --
The one, a vicious slap,
The other, tactile comfort taken to new depths.

Measure, I must ask
For measure,
Who will choose Ms. Pain and who default to Mrs. Pleasure?

Buy one
Get one free! 

But wait!
There's more! --

If Captain Crunch indeed
Presents now
As a she,
In that
There's always
Buried treasure.

In Your Hands Helpless

Peel me like an onion love.
Shed my dry and withered outer skin --
A chrysalis in flakes that fall upon your kitchen floor,
In autumn leaves elusive,
When the drafty vents cough up synthetic breaths from time to time
In fits, in starts.

Knead me now!
I'm moist and vital, milky even, pungent.
But I'll leave you only stinging tears,
A buttery hiss perhaps?
But only if you're good.
You knew this going in of course.

Sweeter now upon your tongue,
And soon I'll be embedded in your flesh.
We'll never part --
At least until the final dissolution of this sodden, teeming earth.

I wanted this, you know,
When I was first and last seen by you
Resting, golden,
On your dingy, ashen hearth.

TFTD:

For the best darned sleep in the whole wide world
Visit My Pillow Dot Com.

The bard's "bare, ruined choirs."   Now I get it.