as a poet I am to court depression,

as a poet I am to court depression,
not with powdered wig and gavel on
charges of disorderly conduct unbecoming
a community pillar, exemplar, no, court,
not with love or score in clay footing
with racket sport but as in hoop skirts
flirt and perchance ask her mother muse
if we may perhaps, dance, gloved, find
our way though the pale tight steps,
sense her glance, catch the lowered lash
the cats of ninetails closing over her eye
lowering her face to mine, stiking us both
milky blind. She is immortal but I would die
of grief if she did or didn’t take me. What
have I to lose? Behold me, her suitor,
I would immortalize the goddess in mere
font, pouring, read and soaking into all
who splash themselves with the sweated ruby beads
in honor of her sparkling tears, running deep
riverbed troughs worn into her anorexic cheeks
as she ignores my beseeched shaking hand
for another dance, and I pine to glorify us both.

logical of course

logical of course

Will not pure sugar and fat due as fuel
for that is what the body aims to convert
all to anyway? Why not skip ahead, push to
obsolescence dreary discipline? If I exercise
does the body not then just want to rest? Why not
save the step? It makes the body tire to move joints
and do the muscles not reprove the approach of strain,
of graduated weights, solemn dutiful increases of pace?
Shall I give it up in that case? Shall I be
learn like the man who did not feed, exercise or give
light to his dog who was nearly felled by surprised at how
just as the beast got used to the simple culture, it died.

If we were that way

If we were that way

I could fix that breezy crack so it doesn’t leak
a bone cold wind on anyone within arm’s reach
again. I’m no drywaller but you’re such
a piece of work it’s hard to not lend a hand.
I’d mend the wall between us and you’d beleive
you were better for it. If you were malleable mud
I’d shape that nub, smooth that lip curl of disgust.
You’d trust my expertise. I’d press you into the wall, fit you on
my sure gliding tool. I’ll make your unevenness flush, pale
and damp to the touch. Later you can pretty yourself up
but for an a few minutes, you’d be mine, if I
were a handyman, and you as malleable
as mud. But neither of us are, are we?

Don’t
give me flak
do you see
a jacket
on me? Don’t
baby me
no bassinet
around my
hips
no beauty mark
no droll painted pouty lips.
just don’t.

talk and pretend
we are friends.
see how that might
just work?