THE EAST WIND III

Why is your smell atop the slight east wind
that seeps through porch screens in very early
morning, and why is the touch of your open
and outfaced palm pushing up from under an air
mattress I keep trying to pierce and pop
by sinking my teeth into its silvery edges?

How many times do you want me to pretend
I’m just another stinky, unwashed ventriloquist
who now and again gives the east wind voice
to proclaim its sweet, non sequitur mandates?

Oh I certainly don’t expect you to sympathize
with the world’s blinding need for cannibalism
once you have the ovaries to face the hot east
wind during tomorrow’s only noonday hour,
but I’d be lying like a bastard if I told you any-
thing different than this: I breathe to make
you terribly tender and absolutely tasty as hell.

A WANNABE DAD

Me hafta be some sovereign, lovely mama
of the lake, a guy with a crown o’er his lips,
nose, and eyes, and one who no longer wants
to make his living chasing iguanas off rocks
and into bakeries and sawmills. So, squeeze-
o’-the-pool, point me toward the die factory
where the plastics proletariat slave to make
them little cubes be-dotted, for see, I gotta
have a chance at a game of chance, to roll
two dice and shove one prince through you.

LAST LOVE

Sun up, sun up, oh you gotta move your hand
without seeming to move your hand,
you gotta stroke me and erase me till I ejaculate
sunflower seed all along rows of my wife’s plowed
terrace, while authorities report most of the planets
have neatly doubled, and your foot-long tongue drips
and drips into the shiny basin of my lap,
where mysteries from my god-damned youth
are being solved now by a teenage sleuth.