Let’s

Let’s imagine that what we do matters –

that from the spatters of the blast

of that great cosmic blunderbuss

from which we are supposed to have

derived, something has jived like jazz

in us to vindicate the vast ballooning

of our Being. Let’s say that seeing this

depends on grasping that strange

sweet ephemeral condition we call love.

Let’s say that love is an illusion we’ve

invented to reflect the whole, inspect

the soul, resourcefully effect a goal.








.

When You’re Not Around

You’d like to know exactly what she sees in him –

you can’t imagine why he’s there at all.

Incredibly, it seems, she still believes in him –

they hold each other in each other’s thrall!

It can’t help but astound –

alarm – appall:

but when you’re not around,

they have a ball.










.

Being Flesh

The strange arrangement of proportions –

the physics of the specificities of sex –

somatic problematical particulars

of all this biomorphic mesh!

Both stokes and undermines the appetites,

this being flesh.










.

Whatever He’s Absorbed With

Although you’ll never know

the whole shenanigan

of anybody else’s mind,

you find, sometimes,

that some of it appears

to want acknowledgment,

and if you feel inclined,

and, oh, today, you do,

with him you always do,

you’ll wait for it – even

if you don’t know what

you’ll do if he accedes.

Clearly now whatever

he’s absorbed with bleeds.

.