Ryan Patrick

Home again and my face
slides
down my neck
in handfuls
at the thought of you
in a number of shirts.

One is red
and like a ribbon
and compliments your hat.

I think of stickers
you chose for me -
a yipping dog, perhaps,
with ambiguous genitalia.
Perhaps an orphaned
spoon.

I think of words
we called one another
like gamete, zygote, and fetus,
but not baby.

I think of your relationship
with the spirit world
and the things you predicted for me
in your bedroom.

I think of games we played
and did not play
because time got away from you
and Iowa loves
its prodigal son.

In my dream
you are not allowed to talk to me
or to feed yourself.
I tell you what you need to hear
in broken English
and piggish French groans.

I feed you and I feed you
as you gesture
with green eyes
and stiff shoulders
at plates of crackers, melon, and berries.

What on earth do we have
to be proud of?
Asks Nan Reagan
and a bevy of oversexed
children.

The answer is,
our bodies:
home of our spirits,
our love,
our human connection,
and the lizards.

Born in a Prison, part deux (or Matrimony of Self)

YOU WERE BORN IN A PRISON. Break the chains and marry yourself. Naked in a public park. Officiated by the fresh air that remains and the gawking millenials on their IPhones. Pledge nothing. Divorce yourself often and for free.

I/You/We All Scream for Ice Cream

I scream.
I am gravid
-as a lizard is-
with hope.
The fat eggs
of expectation
tauten my belly.

You scream.
Though you try
to contain
with gun to head,
your joy
escapes
like aerosol
like helium
to the ozone
and the world beyond
your finite reserves.

We all scream.
Hands within hands
knuckles of white
and orange
and tan.
To be unacquainted
not previously introduced
altogether strange
does not preclude
our touching
and anticipating together.

Ice cream is served.

Children's Poem No. 2

Long Lost John Long Dong
came along.

Long Lost John Long Dong
came along.

As it turns out
he had a long dong
all along.

As luck would have it
he had had a long dong
all along.

(To be set to a mournful melody)

Morgan

Two-eyed lady
in all your sweat
and strange shoes

Gentle lady
who learned Spanish
formally
and Chinese
in passing

Thin lady
with symmetrical breasts
in that party dress
we imagined so much

I call to the prostitutes
to the alcoholics
to the men who did
unspeakable things
when there was no war
to excuse them:
Come and get 
your soup!

God will never love
such a sorry lot
such a harried lot
of harlots
but Morgan
can make them soup
from a burrito.


 

A Third Marriage

The aura of our love
radiates,
sags in the air,
drips from my glands
like gonnoreah
like hunger
like an odor:

The beautiful browns of oblivion
The powerful reds of sex on crack
The silken blues of a subtle winter carjacking.

I revel in the lukewarmth
of your affection
on a crosstown bus.

I recall for you
that we
were never new at this.

With you
I only ever felt as young
as a 12 year old vagrant
as a rejuvenated vagina
as a Depression era bride
as a dog of 16
as an orphan boy dressed everyday like some kind of a
clown.

Almanac of Illinois

In Illinois
there are no lakes
to make your young heart
angry.

In Illinois
there is no good or bad marijuana
and no masturbation hidden by
pinstriped overalls.

There are no old houses
restored right
for a good price.

There are no midwives.

There is no snow.

In Illinois
there are no greyhound buses,
no runaways,
and you can't paste porno magazines inside
your cupboards.

In Illinois
there are no cute boys
to kiss you well
and screw you like you
imagined it.

There are no hobos.

There are no hippies.

In Illinois
there are no cafes,
no bicycles,
and no cigarettes.

There are no third generation Lebanese.

In Illinois
you cannot sit in a defunct sauna
or learn to knit.

Neither can you find
the right shade
of red hair.

In Illinois
there are cracked stoops
upon which to growl
at the good things
that stole our hearts
in younger states.