Though lips twitch above the Reader's Digest,
I gravitate to Watergate overtones
In tomes I post and self-publish,
Oh, twenty a day when the Muse strikes
My ass with a bolo paddle,
A surplice-shaking fury leaving indents
On my surplus, my surd of tracts
Scotch-taped to mannequin bumps
At four in the morn, the shop windows
All fogged up with quickened breath.
It’s all of a piece, Olive, you grainy wino,
Always ransacking the haberdasher
For tailless tuxes of teal
I’d lease for you with “Wondrous Heaven Of Love”
As credulous collateral.
Bibulous I am half the time,
The other half mopey or comalike,
Forensic calipers flaring nostrils and lids
As I stare, bare tears
Serenading a bimbo
Unversed in English
Who thinks my poems a helpful navigation
Of farm sites
Without smudging pump shoes.
Speaking of pumping,
I tossed one off in the infirmary parking lot
Just before Nurse Ratchett
Waddled her round bottom
Out her tan sedan,
Me stammering and blue-faced
From two intense strokes
While I fantasized about silver slivers
Of heated thermometers.
There's the post wherein I harrumphed,
Lambasting a Dead White Man
For getting published
Without my consent,
And there's the platform
I had my first reading
While Ben-Wa balls
Under pyjama ass-flaps,
Pink, as pink-faced I intoned
To the crowd of confused Shriners:
"Hilda, as if in amour
We caressed a nipple!
Ah God of beauty, eyes of wonderment,
Lamb of succulent scripture,
Fuck Paul Anka with his coercive baby sprees!
Have seven of mine,
All with goofy grins and caved-in chins.
We'll have a poetry conference every night
In the outhouse
Where turkeys crisscross like annoyed chefs
Out for roadkill and gossip".
It's time I folded my poem
Like a papier mache dagger
And sent it to my absent delusion,
Sticking the pasty cut-out
In her wringing hand.
O Erato, erase me.