The storm that left me drunk this morning,
last night flooded the sewers of my mind
slick and slow with the daily special,
again.
Today’s clean bright hours are a dry wind
blowing winsome platitudes through my cold fingers.
So I think about women, as baked clay,
how my hands won’t bring a plate from her bowl.
Nothing is organic with his, your, my
girl.
Breaking off her sins with ass pinching fingers,
gluing them on with face cupping palms.
She’s rounded out nicely now, mellow and easy
on the eyes, but half full, half dead.
I’m here to glaze her,
again.
Her past embraces chip off, poorly fired,
her memories flake down to me.
I can pick them up,
I can melt them
I can cover her,
again.
–
tjq
The sex, if poor, is gratuitous; she is
Texan blonde, or lesbian.
The band plays us loud
mournful numbers,
syncopation in seven
fourths. Dinner follows.
George works for the TSA with a duck,
a prick and a flower.
His Soviet realist hips and
allergic eyes tiredly beckon in
a whisper of vodka tears:
Yesterday the duck ate the flower and
the prick was arrested for fucking the duck.
The little prince and I have stars
to catch, you may come
to the blue black sky,
help us find
her red
red blossom.
–
tjq
Masturbation.
It’s like shopping, drunk,
at Wal-Mart,
at 2 a.m.
Once you’ve been a dozen times
you realize:
Hey!
it’s got everything I need,
and nothing I want.
–
tjq
