HOPE, LOVE, GOD
We Meat Creatures
are easily damaged,
prone to age and spoilage.
or each other
by hiding from fact.
Reason by emotion
honor by opportunity.
We are content
to admire our meat
in those mirrors we devised
to fool us into belief
in distorted reverses.
After all, inevitability
is actually optional
in the cosmography
of our minds.
to some other’s meat
justifies all our crimes.
After all, an impossible entity
of infinite opposites
to the exclusive end
of salvaging us from our natures.
We mistake for a miracle
the mirage the mirrors reveal.
What’s the Pointillism of it All?
The dotted bourgeoisie dress in their careful dimanche best
to be seen at the beach of the Grande Jatte.
After the coy voyeurs perform their routine blushes
at the nudely refashioned Temple de l’Amour,
they pose at their accustomed spots,
as static as the models of Seurat.
There, these stoïques of Paris stare across the Seine.
at the prolétaires on the other side.
Perhaps they envy them their energy, their skin.
Or perhaps their affectless attention is drawn by, — what?
Nemo surfacing in the sun?
Possibly they comprehend what Nautilus portends.
PUSSYFOOTIN’ IN THE CITY
All those nights my testosterone howled,
amped up by incessant commercial lectures,
I hunted my much-hyped rapture.
But I felt dwarfed by architecture
and isolated within the crowd.
(The average penis is some 5 inches long;
multiply by the city’s male population.)
I once courted a turner
and imagined contorting together,
gliding and sliding ourselves against gravity
before landing on our feet.
But she refrained due to twisties.
(The rubber band vagina, also 5 inches deep,
may expand to seven.
Multiply by the number of women.)
And then there was that diver,
so inviting in her mask and leather.
I pictured us slipping and dipping in liquid,
barely taking time to breathe.
But always she would plead the bends.
(Subtract one genital total from the other
to find the sex desperation index
measured in pussy feet.)