The male me, the one with
the bushy blond hair,
swaggers across the sidewalk, bopping to
his huge ear-pad headphones.
Self-satisfaction surrounds him
like a halo.
Anyone could see it.
It’s an automatic thumbs-up.
Just at the right moment,
my female side dances in, from
the opposite direction,
her healthy chestnut tresses
bouncing to quite a different beat.
She’s American as the Sun Maid raisin girl,
a sweet fib
about backbreaking labor, oblivious
behind her own ear pads, a hymn
The collision is destiny, the promise
that mutual attraction
of the approved sort
begins with arbitrary violence.
it’s a natural process, even if
your politics in my poetry!”
“You got your poetry
on my politics!”
Deus ex machina, a shop clerk in an apron
hands the indignant pair
a tasty compromise formation.
Let the dance begin, tertiary
All this makes 1-800-SueU4Pain superfluous,
thank you for your concern.
Alas, it’s not the 80s anymore.
The tv, flat
as an underwear model’s abdomen,
has burnt through its toxins.
No pain, no gain.
Two great tastes that taste
great together: the bald propaganda
I couldn’t write, muscular, handsome,
so retro in his black Doc Martens,
and a pretty little peanut butter cup,
actually a prophecy, yes, an infinitely gentle,
infinitely suffering thing.
Creative Resistance (March 2014); The Good Men Project (October 2014).