Hop a Train in November

Well, Stephanie.  Here we are having just made love on a train and we aren't even married.  And when I say train, I mean a boxcar and also that I will never marry you - never never.  Whatever is wet is also cold now.  You said the floor stole all the heat from your butt, Stephanie, but the whole front on my pants is frozen.  It's real ice.

There are always women hitting their little children on the Greyhound bus.  A good day is when it is just me and the parolees.  You could be there with me or not.  I think all in all, both ways of getting around have their minuses, even if I did just get a nut. Being on a bus, I just ignore the little kids getting smacked.  I go to sleep and try not to say anything to whoever might sit next to me.  It's warm there, and the seats are soft.  They smell awful, but on a train, I use one corner to piss in, so that doesn't smell too good either.  If you piss out the door, you gotta have one hand on your dick and the other holding yourself steady.  You could fall right off the train if it's moving, and who knows when it will stop, and sometimes your really have to go.  Other times your piss blows right back into your face and all over your clothes. Greyhound, they have a bathroom right there on a bus.


I regret we made love too, Stephanie.  So there you go - all points in favor of the Greyhound bus. Now that I think about it, a good ride would be just me, some parolees, and you in some city far away from me while I ride the bus in the opposite direction. 

I guess there's some things a person just doesn't get over.  For me it's all the shit you did to me last year.  I went to a Baptist school, Stephanie.  It was always your idea to get undressed.  You invited me to live in your room.  You got mad when I pulled out.  You left our free condoms on some sidewalk in Austin, Texas.  Now I'm going to Hell and you're following me around again talking about marriage.

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.