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."
Wednesday, May 30, 2018
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
Who will choose Ms. Pain and who default to Mrs. Pleasure?
Get one free!
There's more! --
If Captain Crunch indeed
As a she,
Friday, May 25, 2018
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
On your dingy, ashen hearth.