Forget the Rules

Forget the rules. We're out of soap.
The electric razor is on the fritz.
Disaster blooms upon your chin
and blisters my tender throat.
Still, my blood runs hot.
Hide yourself between my breasts.
Punch the puritan quilt to the floor.
Our bodies form a demented cross
against the cold Capricorn sun,
and passion hijacks the morn.

Rants (For a Likely Story)

Reaching back to heaven, I caught a liar's moon.
(Who said there are never enough words?)
I dug deep, hung tight, and I played
until midlife, midwife, middle
of nowhere,
something died.
I changed my mind,
changed myself,
changed myself again.
I didn't stay.
I didn't listen.
I didn't know
dreams end in radio station madness
where libidinal bodies beat the drums.
With every vibration, she's calling me.
Failures and footsteps at my back,
I cannot stop.
I cannot stop,
nor can she.
So, we run.
We run.
Whorehouse-smart, I'm not
buddy-buddy,
just very,
very tired.

These Days

These days, I hate most everything
and curse the muse who hides
all but the glare of baleful eyes
behind dead poets and scholars.

I could break the rules, dance with fools,
castrate my I's, and hurl commas
like boomerangs into the air,
but who needs a new prison to hate?