run of the mill

not everything
needs to be
profound

not every day
not every night
not every poem

sometimes
you sit
and the cat
pushes
his asshole
into your face

sometimes
the pens
run out
of ink

and even
the tuna
goes bad
along with
the tomatoes
the mayonnaise
the wheat bread

and the water
sitting in
your glass
collecting dust

but that’s ok
because
not everything
needs to be
profound

so go and do
your laundry
make the bed
make another
shopping list
and buy
more
tuna
tomatoes
mayo and wheat bread

and don’t forget
the pens
for when something
profound does come along

the interrupted unconscious of kubla khan  


she has an acute
sense of smell
now that
she is pregnant
and has often condemned

my deodorant my hygiene
my morning breath
my feet
even though
I shower at least
once a day and brush twice

and when the dog’s express
their anal glands
or the cats
spray the litter box
she is the first to point fingers

but this morning I called
her from work
and she said,
last night
when I rolled over

I think I swallowed a fart
in fact the taste was
so pungent I checked
your ass to see if it was wet

and even though
I’ve showered
brushed my teeth
and have eaten
my morning oatmeal

the taste of your asshole
is still on my lips

it woke me out of a sound
sleep and I was having
this really amazing
dream which I can’t
remember but if I could
I’d be so happy
I’d recreate that miracle

and no one
would believe their eyes

confession

I once compared
Aristophanes’
Lysistrata to

The Real Housewives
of Orange County

I regret to admit
this happened
in the classroom
and many
of my students
your children
responded well
even laughed
at the seeming
remarkableness
of this association

I regret further
to admit
that I’ve
actually viewed
and on more than
one occasion
not only

The Real Housewives
or Orange County

but of New York
New Jersey
and Atlanta

I’d blame it all
on my wife
but when
I find myself
with options
and still choose
the cackling idiocy
of these reality whores

I cannot justly
accuse her
of bribery or
controlling
the remote

and even worse
this poem
is beginning
to sound like
a Kathy Griffin
comedy hour
which
much to
my chagrin
I have also watched
unabated
and with reluctant
though irrepressible laughter

the dead dick of breakfast cereals

late nights on the graveyard
shift he’d tell me stories
of his volunteer work
at the local shelter

he was a good christian
and did his best
for all humanity

I was an extinguished
catholic who didn’t
care much for
corporate healing

but somehow
during those
nights we
found common
ground through
the comedic
suffering of others

he would tell me
of the ragged
old whores
building dream homes
out of mashed potatoes

of delusional men
in rat rags
insisting that
knives didn’t
count as weapons
and should be allowed
at the mission

but the most memorable
was of a morning
therapy group
he held with various men
in the facility
each crowding around
a large circular table

of course no one
wanted to speak
so he’d begin
by asking
a simple question
something to
loosen them up
and so he did

what’s your favorite
breakfast cereal
he asked
watching all
their minds churn
and yet many
quick with
answers like

frosted flakes
cocoa puffs
lucky charms
cap’n crunch
trix
fruit loops
cinnamon toast crunch
…
and then a dark
rather meek
fellow whose
voice could barely
be heard above
the crack of a nut
whispered
count chocula

and from the other
end of the room
came a voice
like a cue ball
cracking the other 15

BULLSHIT!
THAT’S MINE MOTHERFUCKER!!

and a man half horse
half dynamite
leapt upon the table
throwing fists
in the air
THAT’S THE ONE I WANTED
MOTHERFUCKER…

and these were the words
to which he had
to be restrained
pleading to god
for a bowl
of count chocula
…
when he finished the story
he asked me
my favorite cereal
and I told him shredded wheat

and he said that shredded wheat
was the dead dick
of breakfast
cereals
which
no one would
fight me for rights

but that’s just how I like it
I told him
let all
the lunatics battle
for empty satisfaction
and leave me
to the dead dick
of my existence
where though
dull to some
can still
get a rise
out of you!

somewhere over the rainbow

tommy took a fast hit
off his Bud
and said, fuck man
I just can’t stand
the thought
the thought of what
I said
the thought of
women shitting
he said shaking
his head
I mean I just
want to go
through life
thinking that
whenever they
go to the toilet
rainbows
pour from
their buttholes
hell I can’t even
call them assholes
he said
I mean, to think
that whatever
crawls pours
scratches
or aches out
my asshole
is the same
monster
crawling out
of theirs is just
sacrilege
it’s like pissing
on a bible
well tommy
I don’t know
about all that
I said
trust me jc
he said
the world
would be
a lot
better off
if women
didn’t shit

tommy was 43
and had never
lived with a
woman
and his mother still
slept with her rosary
and was so uptight
she’d probably
never had
to shit in
her life

tommy got up
from his
barstool
and said
well, time to
take a ride
on the ol’
deuce caboose
he said
slapping my back
and walking
off to a
bathroom
I barely feel
comfortable
unzipping in

so I sat there
pulling at
my beer and
thinking
about shit
what really
troubled me
was not
women shitting
but the rainbow itself
and if the rainbow
poured from
every woman’s ass
I couldn’t help
but imagine
leprechauns
waiting at the ends
of long sewage pipes
protecting their
pots of gold
mounds of man
shit at their sides
their little feet
gliding
irrevocably
forward and backward 
a faint Irish tune
stammering
from their
wet lips
a woman up
miles above
wiping off
spring
rain moving
from front
to back
just like her
mother taught her

hedonism

it was a brief obsession of mine
after my first wife left
researching them
seeing why and how
they did what they did

for some
fantasy played a large role
searching for a perfect
fantasy lover—beautiful
submissive and eternal

others were less
intimate
following from
a great distance
to secluded areas
to pursue them
for no other
reason than delight

while still others
more refined
were motivated
by material gain
and lifestyle
only acting out
when disrupted

somehow
reading about
all these people
who needed
so much
more than I did
set me at ease

during those quiet
and seemingly
endless nights
dreaming
of new
forms of lust
thrill and comfort
still so far
out of reach

too close to know

sometimes you’re too close
to know your woman
is a snake twisted
around your trunk that
your job is just another slut
another slit wrist another
tryst ending in your hunched
shoulders over the bathroom
basin brazen face questioning
its reflection that your dogs
are only waiting for you
to die to feed upon your
hospitality that your shadow’s
grown tired of following
you that your television is
tired of entertaining you
that friends and family have
no idea who you really are
that your body is not your
own that your eyes see
what they want
to see that you dream
and you hope and you
want and you need and
dream impossible dreams
leftovers from madmen
on hot nights and that
when lightning strikes
it will leave only
the empty breath
of degraded sentiment
raping your freedom
raping your
soul and nobody knows
the troubles I’ve seen except for
you, you, and you and they
say that’s supposed to save
you but sometimes you’re
too close to know the
difference between salvation
and damnation and really
what’s the difference when
it’s all in your mind