Friday, October 13, 2017

In Search of the Sleazy Apothegm

I’ve become a match for
the latch on a door.
I thought I wanted more
of every bit of thing nonstop
to stop by, drop in, pop on
over. And they did.
They were no bed of clover.

I hid when they had
eaten all my raisins
and my reason and got
bored with the unfeasible,
unseasonable sleaze
of my proclivities and slid
back out the door.

Now each last dotted i,
crossed t in them has lost
its appetite for me,
and I have lost
my aptitude for every little
idiotic bitty flitty it in them.
Now I require

a perfect single essence
to inspire condensation:
deflate the bloviation,
mutate to apothegm.
I’m on a diet.
It’s very quiet. I recall
how much I like it

loud, and how I love
a sweaty crowd.
Been so long
since I have bowed
to great applause.
Gives the poet in me pause.
Gives the sleazy actor claws.


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