[I] – Did you know this would happen when we first got here?
When we were climbing the stairs? Not exactly, but
Kinda hopin’. Then it’s not true. What’s not true? That
When a man and a woman go out on a date,
The man hopes but the woman knows. Scrunched brows briefly
Reveal deep thought. This is a special case. Ah ha!
So it is true after all? Well, mostly. As you
Can see, not always. Case in point. We are talkers,
Both of us, we like to go gently into that
Sultry night, we like to get to know each other
As we push and writhe into the dark chthonic depths.
Off limits, no can do, verboten, stay off, the
Forbidden fruit is the hardest to resist and
The sweetest when it splays itself widely per dieu.
[II] – I say “After you” and follow her up the stairs,
And when we reach the top she asks me in eager
Sincerity whether I think the practice of
“Ladies first” had arisen so men could check out
Women’s asses. Which is exactly what I had
Been doing, and, apparently, she knew it. I
Thought I’d detected a bit of a strut. Ah-hum.
Well, I can’t really say, but I have to admit
That it’s possible. You’d probably need research
On women’s attire at the time that the practice
Arose. But, come to think of it, don’t women’s styles
Always take care to see that she looks good behind?
And you do, by the way. Blushing shows easily
On her fair complexion, and I can’t find the keys.
[III] – You gotta lotta books. About six thousand, give
Or take. Have you read all of them? Most of them, but
My reading list will require me to live to one
Hundred thirty-five. She cocks her head, then gets the
Joke. Would you like some coffee? Got any Scotch? I’m
Pleasantly taken aback. Why sure, Johnny Red,
How’s that by you? Very good. Black is better, but
It’s more expensive than life. Amen sister. I
Pour two, with some rocks, and sit on the sofa, her
Drink on the coffee table. She plays coy but that
Smile gives her away. The rocks are going to melt
If you don’t come sit down. I doubt that, she says, but
She sits anyway. She is the master of the
Counterfactual question. That’s how we got here.
[IV] – Do you think, what if, where do you stand on free-will?
To be honest, I avoid metaphysics as
Best I can. It strikes me as an idle pastime.
Of course, it is true that, now and then, the terra
Incognita cannot be avoided. Before
I venture into that dark morass, I like to
Make clear that I’m only speculating, putting
Forth hypotheses I know can’t be tested. And
That’s bad because…? If they can’t be tested, they’re not
Worth a damn. Why not? How else can you tell the false
From the true? I see. From her bra she produces
A joint. Do you get high? As a matter of fact,
Yes, I do. She reaches across me to get the
Lighter, her scent is like a meadow in heaven.
[V] – Actually hadn’t gotten high in years (seemed
Like the wrong thing to say). Apparently, pot had
Gotten better during those years. Three or four hits
And the whole room spun like a spider in a dark
Corner near the ceiling. Actually hadn’t
Had a rush like that in years (maybe one time on
A hot day, half way up a ladder). Closed my eyes
And held on like the cosmos depended on it.
Awoke in the land of interminable joy,
The land of the lotus eaters. The ecstasy,
The pleasure, tomorrow forgotten, all care, all
Cause for concern; Odysseus paid with ten years
Of his life, or ten minutes. It’s difficult to
Say; it isn’t the past that it’s going to cost.
[VI] – Something funny? No, not at all. Then why are you
Laughing? (Effort to subdue it, but my sides hurt
And tears roll down my face.) Can’t be helped, some kind of
Reflex; I don’t get to this place very often.
That’s mostly true; but, in fact, for some disturbing
Reason I had thought of dribbling, a basketball.
Then the sleeve across the lips about sealed the deal.
An acute case of epignosennoia (you
Won’t find it in the dictionary, poets get
To invent words. But you can research the roots in
Greek). She looks askance, which is the dance that you do
When you have a question but don’t ask it. Just as
Well. Saves the effort of evasion or having
To remember a lie, not easy when you’re high.
62 Random Poems You Can Realistically Relate To
[VII] – A lotus is a fine thing to eat. The fragrance
An intoxicating tincture, the texture on
The margins of scripture and text, the flavor of
Honey and salt. They say they contain a toxin,
Some sort of narcotic or soporific. Let’s
Not jump to conclusions. The petals seem fragile,
As if they must be gently touched, caressed by the
Tongue, made to want to be eaten. Let there be no
Ambiguity, if only for reasons of
Law. Not at all like back in the day. The lips of
A mouth, puckered to kiss me, thankfully without
Any goatee. A gentleman must ask probing
Questions about the location of Grafenberg,
And search like the Gestapo if necessary.
[VIII] – Into the uncarpeted entryway, upstairs,
Perhaps across terrazzo kitchen, brief stop at
Ceramically tiled bathroom, down hardwood hallways
To a pinewood bedroom where Wittgenstein’s love-song
Is piped in from invisible speakers. Like a
Soldier surrendering, she raises bayonets,
Once fixed and marching, now pointed upward, as if
To walk upon the ceiling. Rhythmic dirks etch this
Image not ephemerally into the air,
Or a stylus on an old vinyl LP which
Repeats the same phrase mechanically, deeper and
Harder, indefinitely, till the oncoming
Cataclysm catastrophizes, or a sharp,
Laser chisel carving in granite memory.
[IX] – Groping in the dark with some expertise, seeking
The spot marked by X – sometimes I swear it moves. But
No chest of riches eludes this spade for long – this
Ain’t my first tarantella. The wards and bittings
Of the key align, unlock, and open many
Treasures. I know how to make the instruments of
Ecstasy sing. I know how to reach the lowest
And highest notes, the places beyond which no man
Can go. I know how lay my bellowing love
Upon the altar and engorge the baptismal
Font, pumping like a flooded sump, draining deep down
Till the fluid is spent. Time will replace what love
Has cost, and I will long to return as no one
Could know. But you alone I will certainly show.
[X] – In more ways than one, love can be such a mess. When
A lover is married to someone else, happens
To be a co-worker, especially in a
Position of higher or lower rank. The mess
Can reach into the home or the job, the mess can
Ruin a life, maybe more. But we won’t think of
That till it’s too late. Plenty of time. A few hours
Yet. Love can be such a mess, viscous liquid, cleansed
Like a cat bathing kittens, internal remnants
Discharged by slow nursing and back-arching joy that
Verges on pain, quaffed, and why not? It’s protein. Fight
The yearning attachment with every resource, it
Won’t preclude pain in due course; but, in the meantime,
Look what you did. Now we will have to start over.
[XI] – Zeus on Olympus, at the mountain’s edge, hands on
Two boulders, looking down on the peons who think
They are important. Perhaps a thunderbolt will
Quell their pretention. Or a conqueror on some
Asian steppe surveying what his horde and the edge
Of the sword have made his. Kneel down to your master,
Obsequious, grovel, expose your tenderest
Vulnerability to me, and I will do
With it as I please. Or an explorer on some
Remote exoplanet discovering perfect
Orbs which glow in the dark and reflect every star
In the sky. I hold your hips like the handles of
A Harley or the reins of a horse and we race
For a furlong or two. I’ve not ridden sweeter.
[XII] – It feels like an avalanche, a landslide, a punch
To the gut that doesn’t hurt – a dam breaking, a
Deluge, a tidal wave, explosions of fireworks
On the Fourth of July. It sings like a tenor
Sings Mozart, like a wolf on a high chaparral
Under a full-moon on a mid-summer’s night, a
Climber in the Alps yodeling for joy. It looks
Like a great bird dropping five thousand feet, seizing
Something from the lake’s mirror surface, suddenly
Disappearing into a cloud. Time hesitates
Momentarily, then comes the backwash, languid,
Liquid, loosening complex knots, several old salts
Preparing to dock. It seems like serenity –
But not far in the distance, the sounds of the hounds.
[XIII] – Two lovers getting dressed after a passionate
Rendezvous they both know was a mistake. They knew
That before they started, and they resisted for
Quite a long time. But the flirtation – mutual,
Deferred, intense – how it burned. Such romances are
Often about as secret as skywriting. But
They don’t know it, or they try very hard not to.
They try to “act normal in public,” which is an
Interesting endeavor, a comedy of
Errors. How does one act normally? I haven’t
Got a clue. Normally, I don’t closely attend
To whatever it is that I normally do.
The whole thing’s entirely ad-libbed, acapella,
And highly classified – like skywriting in code.
[XIV] – When impulse conquers restraint, they take the short view.
Don’t stand so close to me. The song is consciously
Quoted. Don’t make eye-contact, and don’t blush every
Time we look at each other. Speak as you always
Spoke, but for God’s sake don’t call me by my first name,
Or that cute little pet-name. It’s going to be
Tempting to sneak off to the maintenance closet,
But we absolutely must avoid such high-risk
Behavior. We’ll meet always on neutral ground, where
We’re not likely to run into people we know,
But if we do, we’ll have this rehearsed bit about
How we had met, wherever we are, just a few
Moments earlier. They both know the ruse can’t last
Too long, they both know it will be bad when exposed.