Assses: Global Warming Sex Poems of Slugs

Asses: Global Warming: Save The Rain Forest: Toilet Paper

No other poet taking on such issues
as the maligned toilet paper tissues.

A shitty subject for poetic affairs
and urgent personal hygienic care.

The world is filled with many asses:
Fat, small, skinny… a lot of asses.

that demand soft white fluffy paper
and too, mountains of baby diapers.

Rivers polluted and forests cleared
to keep our asses squeaky cleaned.

Bedouins used water and sand.
Ouch, is what I say to that plan.

Toshiba has a high tech scrubber,
tushy clean rubba- a- dub dubber.

Or soap, water and rag is a way
to keep it tidy each & every day

Save the planet! Raise your voice!
Bend on over & make a choice!

Save the rain forest! Save your ass!
If truly organic, wipe it with grass.

Recycled toilet paper if you will
To give your bung- hole a thrill

Or follow the four fold tush rule
to be truly environmentally cool

Wipe, fold, wipe, fold & again.
Wipe fold, wipe, fold & again.

At last put your ass on the line
An indelicate issue not so refined

Save our water, planet, and trees.
Save your ass too if you please.
+++++

Slugs as Great Lovers
Never thought of slugs
as great lovers until
today, I saw a porno
movie that captured
their amorous romance.

Slithering in a mucous
rapture towards estrous
leaving a scented trail
of the equivalent of a
bed of fresh roses,
Belgian chocolates,
and the promise of
hot sex spoken in
a fragrant bouquet
of pheromones.

Man, the film was
kinky!
I was getting a little
excited as the two
slugs congealed
in their thick
mucous rapture,
coiling round
one another in
a spiral of love
for hours in the
slow juicy
exchange of
fluids,
--in their
hermaphroditic
rapture their
luminescent
blue penises
glowed in the
dark

and at
the climax
one dropped from
the tree in
a sated orgiastic
thrilling fall

It laid there
on the ground
still

exhausted
thoroughly
spent and
musing,
“Man,
she/he
was hot!”

++++++++++++

Excerpt from: Easter 09
My obligation as an artist, maybe
that is a stretch, my obligation
as a sentient being is to be awed by
the Universe.

The whole universe.

The sunrise on Estrellas, the planet
so secret from scientists
that only a poet can visit, where
stars don’t shine but laugh
from the memory of redemption.
Have you been there and seen the
intimacies? Have you seen
flowers bloom with the heads of Saints
and saviors from the planet Earth?
There is a garden where Jesus and Buddha
Mohammed grow.

Jew – Christians- theists and even atheist
grow in the garden then plucked, stems,
stalks, but the seeds remained.
On the piano, by the window that overlooked
the five moons of Estrella, light streamed
through the window
everywhere in the universe colors are
universal
except here by the Edge of Memory.

The precipice where the Universe will
tumble and fall off,
is the Edge of Memory

May
I translate some of these colors?
Love is the first color:
Something akin to an e flat minor,
a blue lilac disintegrating
into razor thin slices of reality:
six lives, ten incarnations of
an e flat minor suspended over a pool
of fire
sacrificed for her own beauty.

Placed in the vase found the memory
of desire.

Anguish:
A chromatic minor key that unlocked the
`room of memory.
Fidelity:
Fidelity to the integrity of desire. A round G bass note
on a cello inside the subterranean vault of the Metro
by the catacombs – La Defense – when I played the
adagio in G – bones of the catacomb seemed to moan
with pleasure at the memory of sound.

+++++++++

Alchemy of Love

I’m a writer who
needs a quiet
place to work.

My wife is in
the kitchen
joyfully
banging
pots
and pans

in her
flurry of
cooking.

A knock
on the door.

Pancakes
strawberries
and whipped
cream served

as my writing
is interrupted
by the alchemy
of love.

Unraveling the Knot
Spring unravels
the thick knot
of memory
that binds
us to winter.

The alchemy
of love to
surrender.

Da’fence Department

A fence in my world
is someone who takes
stolen goods, gives
you a fraction of its
worth, and resells it.

The Department of
Da’fence stealing the
future of America,
& repackaging it as,
“Democracy for export!”
“Freedom from terror!”
“Free trade for the USA!”
“Protect our Oil!”
All wrapped in red, white
and blue.

Obligation

My paintings may never
hang in a museum or seen
by more than friends.

My poems may never
be heard or read by more
than a roomful of people.

My songs may never be
heard by more than
a few.

My creative work that
I devote my life to -- may
not find an audience in
this life…

but as an artist my
obligation is to wake
up each day and create.