In retrospect, that painting on your wall
that strains against its frame, which does not fit,
stare at it long: why is it there at all?
What furtive, longing eye does it admit?
That book off on its own there on your shelf,
its loved and tattered cover bleeding red,
what does it say? (I read it once, myself.)
Would Holden leave a comrade there for dead?
All fashions come and go, like drawing breath,
and yet, despite, the photograph remains.
To burn the word cannot compel its death.
From ashes’ ashes, fire in our brains!
The poet loves you; grieve and take a swig.
To gag me, he must kill me: “Fuck the pig!”

I know you think it’s just a “pornogram,”

but this is me, the word you overlook.

My psalm does not descend from Abraham.

He’s not allowed to bully in my book.

He’s not allowed to violate my verse.

You think that we can stop him? We should try.

He says he’s gonna end the universe,

with flaming sulfur raining from the sky.

The old white men are gonna make it pour,

and tell my sister “swallow” when she spits,

and, when she bites it off, call her a “whore.”

Cut off a toe, and then the slipper fits.

It’s not my place to say, “Your rage is just.”

To feel Her love, why pander to “His” lust?

I have, in hand, a package to return.
I used it once or twice, but it’s still clean.
It’s big enough, but that’s not my concern.
Just try it, and you’ll find out what I mean…
See that? It’s got a kickback like a gun!
First time I felt it, nearly blew my head!
My girlfriend gasped! She thought it might be fun,
but then she used it–left me, said, “Drop dead!”
I’d say, “That’s her,” but others took offense.
It pops, and you can hear down the block!
It sprays, and then the mess is just immense!
For what it’s done me, trade you for a rock!
It doesn’t even fit inside the hole.
So, take it back. I offer up my soul.

These words are all the beauty I comprise.

These mumbles heard by no one spell my name.

Set them in glass to mirror your surprise

when fourteen lines exceed the picture frame.

If you would see my face, behold it here.

Look on its scars before you see it smile.

I mean no harm, no damage to your ear.

My trek is long, before we tread a mile.

If this is not the reason, turn away!

Ask, “Wherefore this?” or stuff it, Juliet.

“A pox on both your houses!” How passé!

This metered heart is beating sonnets, yet!

My organ throbs a vulgar, bloody flow.

Give penance to your God, and claim you know.

I do not know the cadence of your speech,

its timbre, or the things it has to say,

but, if you shout, perhaps the words will reach

above the din and past the earthly fray.

I think that I might hear you, out in space,

out far beyond the clouds, where breath is rare,

before we disappear, without a trace,

in telescopes turned opposite to stare.

I hear they plan to send a man to Mars.

I’ll race him there. I’m halfway to the moon.

Come meet me past the sun and ‘twixt the stars.

My trip is lightyears, but I’ll get there soon.

You say you are a child of the moon;

come out a little farther, and I’ll swoon.