Happiness girls are standing on the tarmac of a red plane- bare teeth, pulsing; their breasts are proud like upper class- their leggings plump boast like hope.
In the dream of a dream of the edgy runway lights. The turn from here is a stroll. A norm-bound, debt-bound a port that devours and despises a man who’s drunk one too many on the flight, cheap and on the red eye. Now leering.
From the nose to the tail of the plane- fluttering and fleet like flames- ebullient nymphs, women who know no bitterness. A sea of plain and contrite men who have lusted but not made a claim- burlesque!- the girls are giggling and raising my hope.
Not to stop now, not to stray from the path, and not to forget the rules of a monogamous love; and to go on without the hope of a lay with the happiness girls is for the best: I know.
But, heavens, I am so sad.
is not an honesty contest.
The time value of truth
wanes so fast that
at the silver jubilee
either truth would survive
or the man.
Or both would be at the bar.
The woman gulping down truth.
The truth, gobbling the man.
I breathed when your father breathed.
That’s how I learned to inhale long and deep
and exhale quick.
On a bed for forty years, one small bed, we one.
I could have chosen (Could I not?) to follow another man
Or lived like a fairy, sans
But, God, it surely felt good to make him mine.
Not in a quest to find love. No, no-
As it happens in dark halls, pages, in glitter rains-
I, with him; freed and tussled in a crammy bed,
Shredded each other for pleasure and pain.
I will walk out and
go with love.
Don’t tell me how good that would be,
the consequences dire.
Or, how good should I be, without it, free.
I won’t listen, no, no.
I will stand up, hold her hand, forsake you for good.
I will walk out and go-
go with love.
No preacher has told me so.
No rocker has swayed me (my heart) with sad crooning at those oblong nights.
But this, this feeling that gnaws a pit (in me)
that I am nothing-
nothing without her.
Before I forsake this feeling, I’ll forsake you, naive.
Before you say a word (and wield a weary smile),
I will walk out of this place.
And go with my love.
Time passes by
There is no clock
But of her cotton rustling
I am a rusty tap
Leaking shallow dripping words
May this poodle
Fill up her silence
An appetite is a costly thing.
For life? Oh, it’s more.
It’s easy to find why tragedy wears such a
commonplace bearing, and hope?
Who knows what it wore.
But, I have lost all my appetite
And hope? I saw her eons ago.
In a time when she was coarsely drawn up and-
Tottering; though her face still glowed.