4 Hour Hard On

Echolalia Of The Numerologist

Six stages 12 steps
four horsemen three stooges
lone gunman two parties
Fortune 500 and one thin dime

Two aces three eights
multiple orgasms ad nauseam
Top 40 bottom dollar mid-life crisis
mark of the beast mark of the beast

Ninth husband 50 summers
nice nude numbers in nasty letters
Too Tall Jones Five Way Scraper
The Seven Warning Signals a capella

Round it up subtract it out
count backwards or sideways from 10
toss and turn the hair from your head--
the columns plead irreconcilable differences

100,00 missing plus or minus 3%
Please be 6' + no exceptions.



from The Love Poems Of Miles Davis

Your eyes, blue as a motherfucker
Your lips, soft as a motherfucker
Your hair, long and satiny as
a motherfucker

* *

We made love, I got my nut off like a motherfucker

She comes out with she thinks Billy Dee's not
half bad to look at,

so I slap her silly as a motherfucker

* *

Some sorry-assed white boy calls about an
interview

then I call back Lurlene, who's into health food
and that vegetarian shit, and always helps me out

And tits big and nice as a motherfucker.




My House Is Your House and So Is Yours

excuse me but we have mutual friends
who speak of you often and not without
gaping veneration
they say you eat without using your mouth
that women offer themselves on the street
and burst into song when you mount them

your travels through the inner realms
leave fame and beauty breathless
and when you sneeze-- spontaneous applause

rival factions commit suicide by proxy
to get a look at the red carpet
you are having dry-cleaned gratis
by a man whose wife is carrying your child

the least tender belch this side of your clenched lips
grants absolution to every rapist within earshot

once you have had your morning tea
and read to your piranhas from the Bible

perhaps you can whip up a quick sermon in the blender
to keep the hounds of hell at bay just a bit longer.




Ghazal Of The 35th November

"Pathos is only pesos with a lisp." What an idiot.
Endurance is not but somehow contains the answer.

Unearthly peach sunset, through a birdless geometry
of wires, streetlights popping on like dominoes falling.

The Drill Sergeant with the shape of a female bodybuilder
may well be one. Time to sell that tonedeaf Stratocaster.

The paint in my hair that won't wash out, get it?
"You can put that in the bank and smoke it." Go away.

My wife's blank books fly out the door, as mine, spare
but there, takes root between Kleinzahler and Knott.

Wedding receptions indistinguishable from art openings.
Baked prunes wrapped in bacon, toothpick spears.

Down le hatch.

Sean Farragher has been publishing poetry and fiction for over twenty years. He's served as Poet In Residence for the South Carolina Arts Commission, and the New Jersey Arts Council. He is also Poetry Editor of the ground breaking online literary magazine, FRiGG

Sean Farragher's poems provide arresting, lyrical forays into often-uncharted territory. Like all good poets, he's able to infuse sometimes disturbing subject matter with lush, original language that simply forces us to open our minds, hearts and ears.

The following poems are "hot off the press", and I am privileged indeed to publish them here on my site. Enjoy the read, and for more poems like this, check out Sean's website at

www.seanfarragher.com



Fountain of Youth (c) '05 Sean Farragher

Cast the sky in silver skin;
let it breathe its open ends
when you and I are raised
upon the tree as arms extend--
clasp finger with ripe fruit,
crush of Venus, swollen cleft
where rivers blend lips spend
daylight from gray vaults
every cell renews whole cloth.

I watch your eyes retrieve the dark
My mouth has stars and broken ark
We live together as fields are sowed
in the next chapters we are not old.



Living Will – Ecclesiastes 12
Ian’s Birthday Poem: 12-5-78 (c) '05 Sean Farragher

I have opened many seeds in my life, and I have
captured flight, gray sails pitched over Atlantic bare sky.

Inside the hull, skin blazes. Twilight opens its door;
rain falls simply on my curved fingers as the green velvet
sinuous hill depicts the lines of family, its convergent genes--
sweet frolic plays the historical waltz and chance
roams over Irish Tara and English Plymouth to spin
the edges of maps into tales, history and human flaw.

I am grown there under perpetual blue waves,
floods from old tides that are not heard but read --
intuitive glyphs strung out on the dreaming walls
in Algonquin caves where we search even in this
millennium for language to become hospitable.

We mostly fail. I walk to the river tender, search
for righteousness, speak with an orthodox Jew on
taxi ride from Newark Airport. He said, as the Rabbi
did when I was 20, to be righteous, -- that is our end.

I connect the sky, interpret the signs find the history
of my son, Ian, know him to be righteous and write
in his gift book that fact; no matter what his life, goodness
is the perfect sum that adds the edges of gravel to rivers
and clouds to mountains, perfects cycles, synclines,
and every geothermal vault, even the last ones
that will boil the sea and we can hear in that last cry
how I may dream the flood again as North River,
now called Hudson, sweeps under the rim of graveyards,
garbage scows and the septic coins of terror.

No, it is not that dark tonight. My son lives another year,
and will live many past my own. I give him one seed.
His mother gave him peace. The city will be daylight
and the rivers and caves of Algonquin dreamers
will capture the faith of the righteous
for at least one day a year.




Broken Toy (c) '05 Sean Farragher

Open the walnut box
with the broken hinge
to rediscover how we end.
There, in rough pieces
of light we scatter
broken toys, refract harm.



2.

Fan out and scream.
Let football madness infect truth.
Do not worry about potions
and apothecaries.
Count aches after you die.
All history is revision.


3.

In the end of water
eyes change, scowls deepen
when the circus ride
resumes like waves
that neither flatten
nor roll cross sandbars.

I arrived too early --
carry indelible words
in a silken bag stuffed
with theatrical hats
lifted from Magars and Huns.

Celebration is a drug
that leaps past ache.
It reverses ill fortune.
It makes lies, truth.



4.

Run darling HOWL and catch the cluck of Ginsberg
and the mucky mucks. HOWL until terminator
breaks perfect plane, curves back upon ancient stone--
follows the last of geometry into the blank star.

I am the noise of the death of the planet called Terra
Count my missing ribs. I was created from woman.
The earth is a magical sore that will heal
when we rub rub rub glan or clitoris with bags of toys.

Unfold arms, legs, might --
press the powder against our skin
when fireworks start,
when air stops we will persevere.



5.

Suck the lemon drops child. Suck the candy for paradise
runs down your sweet tooth and I hold you close myself
the last visitor to myself and my voices, like broken light
the box is the last place where love's trapped before expulsion.




Mother Fuckers and God are Lovers
of Darkness and Defenders of Oblivion (c) '05 Sean Farragher

Everybody dances on water when light
groans in its own corrupt shell. We are
born out of that desire for permanence
when contracts and torts are displayed
above the fold like tits made of marble.

I climb every deep wave, each double D breast
moment of water rubs salt into cancer,
and my eyes know primary color minus blue.

The ocean was fetid. The sky was brown.
It was a beautiful beginning like I promised
God when I told her I would make the world
into a bed where desire was only one element
Why do I lie as a soul without courage
In my eye dreams know first lines before death.

I am a thief of discovery. I crept into her cunt
and I licked where she drooled and I shot my
wad across temptation and could not finish
the dark cross word puzzle that was the plan
for the universe revised and perfected.

I am neither true nor false. I am terror
with a wisp of peppermint and pistachio. I do not
want to leap out of my desire for a young virgin who creeps
her exaggerated lipstick line into my mask and tastes of come.
I rub my cock and I am not forgotten.
She laughs at her clit and its resilient twitch.

The ocean laughed when it boiled.
Clams simply became a bitter myth
but lived to tell about it. I felt old
when I swam in the butter.
Every lip that sucked, every eye that stole light
rushed through the swells and I found my name
ground into the soft sand of the beach front
where I could not escape flights of fancy
or the poison of the ball bouncing in my liver.

Damn this life and forget salvation
I am the past without frame, and
my present is cold soup.

I am Onion soup bound on the Atlantic
Desire turns my Dick into my mother’s
lips and my father’s unrepentant ardor

I was stolen from life by oceans of hands
When the light shifted I became less than soup
and my stars rested on horizon

I am calm in my disposal and the shit scowl
of mud huts and primary civilization is lost

God Bless the memory of Incest.
Fondle the past with dirty salt.

Blessed are the disposable.
When I cry I am silent
and my limbs crushed simply fall
apart in the union of air and water,
Earth and fire, rust and confusion

I am God Mother fuckers.
You made God in your image

Death to God. Sigh.
The last words of every song
Have nothing to do with meaning

We are dried out when we fall
out of the trees of oceans
under the melodrama of nice
friends gathered together for a picnic
playing every kiss to win.

You remember swimming in water
when birth was a shot out of semen
and into the milk that leaked and sprayed
everywhere like all oceans do even when exhausted
and empty of the magnificent links back to Rome.

It is a rare occasion indeed when a
Shane Allison poem does not crack me the fawk up. --DM


"navy blue dress" (c) '05 by Shane Allison

The face of Monica Lewinsky looking sad
in her navy blue dress

The face of Monica Lewinsky when she sits
down and rips her navy blue dress

The face of Monica Lewinsky when she is wearing
her powerful navy blue dress that turns the heads
of vulgar construction workers

The faces of cops laughing at Monica Lewinsky in her
navy blue dress

Faces of small animals wrapped in Monica Lewinsky's
navy blue dress

Rich, plastic faces of women spending money
on Monica Lewinsky's infamous navy blue dress put
up for auction

Vicious faces of dogs running after Monica Lewinsky
in her navy blue dress

Made up faces of crossdressers wearing navy blue
dresses
and caring automatic hand guns

Sweaty faces of people wearing navy blue dresses in an

office with a broken air conditioner.

Faces of women burning navy blue dresses in protest
Drag queens wearing dark wigs and navy blue dresses

Faces of lawyers cringing to the sight of Monica
Lewinsky's navy blue dress

Faces of horny hockey players drooling when Monica
Lewinsky walks by in her navy blue dress

The face of Monica Lewinsky when her panties fall down
around her ankles from beneath her navy blue dress

The face Monica Lewinsky makes when her mother tells
her
to take off that damn navy blue dress

smithpeter is the pen name of prolific poet Douglas Gamrath, who at the time of his passing 1 year ago had amassed several volumes of astounding poetry that no doubt will find a home with a book publisher soon. If Henry Miller met Lewis Carroll over a steaming cup of tea on a Sunday, and began improvising lines and figures in the morning mist-- it would come close to capturing the essence of smithpeter.

Now it is time for this misty-eyed blogger to kindly shut his trap, and let the poetry do the talking.

Adieu Douglas. There will never be another U. :)



"simple solar" (c) '04 smithpeter


-introduction by moisture:
I am his sweet gooey pond
sticky below his fragrant flower
proper pruned to be,
just so

-flash back:
living in a foot hill cave
he runs to look down
waiting for the two inch heeled
mountain knobbed clog lady with great mirth and happy hair

-flash forward:
straws chock full of syrup
hard to suck due the chunks
of banana and berry,
they gape below the sun vacuum cheeked all rosy and cute

-secondary and primary characters:
the lone elk and wedded pair of wild boar
are dispatched with ease
to dinner and a show with extra butter
so waffle stomper woman can rest her curious poetic head

-real life:
he beams like a coal miner’s headlight
all switches on
he watches the semaphore dancing across her forehead
she dreams of spice and soft touch with edge



"ass is precipice, fucker" (c) '04 smithpeter

foolish and hooded, no peeking,
only you are allowed to speak, moan,
grind teeth
hold it like a rifle stock
thumb passes over moist tip
sure enough real, fleshy, firmness
supplied by warm red blood
from strong male heart
you hear
head pressed against pounding chest
moments before his best
his holstering into your sheath
the feel of his length
up from your gut
to the back of your throat
so big and gentle
for the moments before his best heave,
please, leave nail cuts
across his muscled shoulders
buttocks
torso pumping prime

roll over
hug yellow satin pillow
tender the space
left to fuck
creamy crack
this young athletic meat
and dairy
till all men
old or young
gray or lightly browned
bleach white or black as elephant ear mushroom
upon festive plate
begin to resemble Sargasso Eel
lips to tail
tasty eats, such uncompromised
delicacy this limber reckless boy’s
tendril pound, wrap
smeared and oiled and panting,
saddled, barbed arrow wind, lost reins surging
over rocky rhinoceros horned cliff
push
push
push some more again, again, fucker



"a good thing" (c) '04 smithpeter

sipping from a candle flame with my eyes
it’s lured oxygen transforms into light
as my memory seems to be trading places
with empty gaps

A small sign goes up in yard near road
Space Available,
No Experience Needed,
Good View of Road and Yard

people driving cars turn their heads,
too bald, too old, too empty, not lived in enough.
Former porn star Sharon Mitchell stops to draw blood

Another brush with greatness speeds away,
slight wave out window,
a fly is left behind. Sharon Mitchell’s fly.
A good omen

The fly and I live happy together for years.
Fly years


"being as small" (c) '04 smithpeter

mirror will be washed
soon as need to see
real
what is here and behind
in front eventually

a mirror is time travel
not space
best silvered glass, water too
sky below, self above
all as bottomless, next to each other
(viewing hint: tip head slightly)

swimming in the untouchable
long as wide pool
deep as shallow heaven


"Tent" (c) '04 smithpeter

a segment of my yard
plays host to a renegade nylon tent
of fiberglass pole persuasion.
it escaped one summer afternoon
was never hunted down.

We know where it is hiding.
It was crummy to sleep in
my head and feet touch shroud
at once

Occasionally it perambulates
breeze propelled
for reasons not worth pondering,
it has become a sight of gentle, but small bemusement

one night it failed to surround me at fire pit,
me and my ember stirring stick seated on a folding aluminum chair
I barked and howled and recited the 23rd psalm.
Tent will never try that again

someday, it wishes, Wind will blow
polite to her, sleek dome screened in 2-man
tricked out, silver zipper, bronze stake
rip stop top shelf sleeper with fly,
ooh bliss



"the cabaret owner" (c) '04 smithpeter

blue, a dusty
Sunday morning hung over
fog and horns
shutters need raising
butts litter where dancers caroused
lifting spirits, skirts, lids,
trousers drop, there were tubas,
his minor key eyes
need sweeping.

there are few bodies buried here
green, beyond the study windows
vast square yards fescue and sod
during day lit life squinting
seeking shade, children singing
under epithermal rain

gray, dinner out of box
no more cigarettes, no wine, no TV
moon is free
cheapest entertainment
next to conversation, if you can find some
at the Cabaret

clear, missing stanza:
owner has cleaned, band is due,
they are razor dressed,
kind but serpent like with
messages rarely
in agreement,

dripping venom
out spit valves
blessing resolved discordance

red, they each touch him
his palm
his shoulder kneels,
walking talking, brass and wire,
weightless soft shoes
tapping
behind the bar
at the Cabaret

"salt n pepper,
keep on doin it"

It seems Shane Allison holds Las Vegas poet Jarret Keene in pretty high esteem-- which, it could be argued, is as it should be.


Editor's Note: Watch out for this guy, peeps and supah freaks-- as he shoots right from the hip with humor and grace singing always from his heart, which a lot of poets talk about, but few really do. And now, without further adieu; here is Shane's chapbook of poems about Jarret Keene.


Litany for Jarret Keene

Jarret, can I ask you a question?
Well, more like a few questions.
Have you written any poems lately?
And if so, have you written any poems
About pickles recently?
What about tighty-whities?
Do you have any poems about potted soil
I could borrow?
Have you ever written poems about dry, cracked lips?
Jarret, do you have any poems about chewing gum
Or cranberry-colored carpet cutters?
Jarret, what about a poem about
Lou Diamond Philips?
Got any Lou Diamond Philips poems
or poems about Siamese cats?
Can you get me a moped for Christmas
With a poem about it taped to the exhaust pipe?
You got any Joyce Dewitt poems lying around?
Can I have a bite of your danish?
Could you write a poem
about my taking a bite of your danish?
I could use a good platinum wig poem
And poems about nylon stockings and doo rags.
You got any poems like this anywhere in your
possession?
Jarret, whenever you write that poem about the
Chili burger, can you copy a few copies for me?
Better yet, can I get some chili cheese fries
Wrapped in wide ruled notebook paper with a poem
About chili cheese fries written on it?
Remember those series of poems about Marilyn Manson
You said you were planning on writing?
Can I have one?
Jarret, do you have any poems about hermaphrodites
Or poems about charbroiled chicken?
Or how about that poem you wrote about
Charbroiled-chicken eating hermaphrodites?
Do you still have that one?
Remember that bad dream you told me about, Jarret?
Did you write a poem about it?
Have you written any sonnets lately
or a maybe a villanelle?
Can you write me a villanelle about pimple cream?
Would it be too much to ask, Jarret,
if you could write me a poem
about Timothy Busfield?
Got any poems about radioactive urine
in Rice Krispies?
Or if you have a poem or two about pissing in cereal,
That would be so neat.
Jarret, can you do me a favor?
Can you possibly write a poem about this dead
armadillo I saw in the road once?
I need a coconut poem.
I need a poem about pink elephants
and pig feet pickled in pig feet juice, Jarret.
Do you think you can write them?
I need a hockey puck poem, a monkey wrench poem,
And a poem about wax fruit.
Jarret, do you know anyone who has written
Poems about Tammy Faye?
Do you think you can write a sonnet on Tammy Faye?
I need it by Thursday.
This poem you wrote about deep fried chicken fingers
I've been hearing so much about, can you fax it to me?
I might put an anthology of poems
together about kiwi milkshakes.
Do you have anything that fits this theme?
You know what I need, Jarret?
I need a Dana Plato poem.
I need some poems about anal beads and shrimp forks.
Jarret, can you write me a poem about dust mops?
Jarret, I want you to write seventy or so poems
About cum in shag carpet in a purple van.
Think you can do that?
Can you write about my hemorrhoids?
Can you write something about that bad case
Of anal warts I had last year?
I need a poem about chopsticks
And anti-lock brakes.
I need a Beau Bridges poem.
I need that, and a poem written about Anne Bancroft
eating peach cobbler.
Think you can handle that?
If you can, tell me about it in a poem.



Jennifer and Jarret

Did you know Jarret and his wife Jennifer have some
kittens?
Did you know Jennifer and her husband Jarret have some
kittens?
They have kittens!
You know him
and his wife Jennifer?
Well, they have some kittens!
Did you know her
and her husband Jarret
Have some kittens?

Did you know him, Jarret
and her, Jennifer?
Well they have some kittens!

They have kittens!
Jennifer and Jarret have kittens!

Him
and
his
wife
Jennifer...

She
and
her
husband
Jarret...

He
and
his
wife
Jennifer...

Her
and
her
husband
Jarret...

Well, get this:
They have kittens!

You know Jennifer and Jarret?
Well, they have some kittens!

He and his wife Jennifer
and she and her husband Jarret...
Well, they have some kittens!

Do you know her?
Do you know him?
Well, Jarret and Jennifer have some kittens!

Jennifer and her husband Jarret
and Jarret and his wife Jennifer
have some kittens!

They have some kittens!
They went and bought themselves some kittens!
Oh yeah, they're gonna have their hands full with
those kittens
because Jarret and Jennifer
just bought some kittens!

Him, and his wife Jennifer
and she and her husband Jarret...
Get...
Get them on the other end...
Get...
Get those kittens on the other end.
Get...
Get Jarret and Jennifer's kittens in here.
They have kittens.



Jarret

I have never thought of you sexually.
I don't think I have ever given
a considerable amount of thought
to your sex. I want you to know

I have never thought of having sex
with you. I never developed a crush,
or had this ridiculous notion
of bringing you flowers,

or committing some other sappy act.
Never have I once thought of kissing
you or running my fingers through
your head of cute, black curls.

Oh, sorry. Sorry for calling your hair
cute. Slip of the tongue.
I didn't mean it. I want you to know
I have never pictured you with your shirt off.

You're my friend and I don't
have fantasies of my friends
with their shirts off.
Just so you know:

I don't wonder about the size of your cock.
Wondering if you're cut or uncut,
or if your balls hang high
is none of my business.

Let me just assure you
that I have never stared at your ass
while you walked.
Never have I had thoughts

of sucking your balls
or imagined you rolling
around naked in wet grass
wearing nothing but white tube socks.

Who in the hell would imagine
such imaginings? Not me, I assure you.
None of this has ever crossed my mind.
I've never thought of you fucking me.

I have never, ever had dreams
about your dick being in my ass
or my dick in your ass.
I don't think about my lips

around your dick, either
or your lips around my dick.
I know you don't want to hear
this, but it's true.

I have never thought of such things,
and I don't think I ever will.
Such thoughts do not run
through my head, baby.

Oh, sorry, my bad, didn't mean to call
you baby. It's not like I go around
calling guys baby. Especially you
of all people.

Just because I like my men bound and gagged,
rough around the edges, doesn't mean
I've thought of you that way.
I've eaten ice cream

off the asses of countless men,
but never, and I mean never,
have I thought of what it would be like
to eat butter pecan ice cream off your ass.

I've never imagined you pouring
hot candle wax on my genitals, either.
It's not you I think of when I'm
lying naked in bed with my cock in my hand.

You are not the one I think of when I come.
You are the last guy I think about.
I want you to know that.
I just want to clear that up.



Jarret's Giant White Hetero Cock

Jarret's white, hetero cock is giant.
Jarret's giant, white cock is hetero.
Jarret's hetero, giant cock is so white.
Jarret's cock is so.so.giant and hetero.
His cock, Jarret's cock is so giant and white and
well.hetero.
Jarret has such a white, hetero giant cock.
So hetero, so giant and so.white.
Who knew?
Who knew that Jarret's cock was so white and hetero
and giant?
I mean, Jarret? Jarret of all people has a giant,
white, hetero cock.
Out of all the men with white hetero giant cocks,
Jarret's cock is the whitest, the most heteroist and
giant.
Out of all the giant white hetero cocks I have seen,
Jarret's white, hetero cock has got to be the
gianiest.
Just when you think you know someone,
Just when I thought I knew him,
I find out that his giant, white hetero cock
Is the most gianiest that I've ever seen.
I would have never believed it
I never would have known.
I couldn't possibly have guessed
That out of all the men with giant, white hetero
cocks,
Jarret's cock would be…well…so… hetero and so…white and
giant.
Jarret has a giant, white, hetero cock.
Jarret's cock is really, really giant, white and
hetero.
Jarret has a giant, white, hetero cock.
Giant. White. Hetero. Jarret.
So giant and white and hetero is Jarret's cock.
Jarret's cock is so giant, white and hetero.
Who knew? I sure as shit didn't know.
I had no idea that Jarret's cock was so giant, white
and hetero.
Did anyone else know? Did anyone else have a clue
That Jarret of all people has a giant white hetero
cock?
Jarret. Jarret has a giant, white hetero cock.
I never knew. I never had a clue.



What I Remember About Jarret

I remember when I first saw you.
You were wearing dark shades.
I think you said hello to me, but I paid you no
attention & wondered who the hell you were.

I remember black hair that was somewhat curly

I remember your lips
I remember white, freshly printed out poems on a desk
I remember you took my dragon journal and wrote me a
check for sixteen dollars.

I remember regretting cashing that check
I remember great big handwriting
I remember low quiz scores written in red ink

I remember you saying something about wanting to stick
your dick between the tits of young freshman girls.

I remember asking you if you were into fat chicks
I remember eating sandwiches at Schlotsky’s
I remember a black toenail in sandals

I remember being kicked out of the office
I remember boxes upon boxes of undistributed literary
magazines

I remember the picture of a woman on a green cover
eating an apple.

I remember calling and asking, “Did you get any hits?”
I remember the endless lists of magazines you got
published in.
I remember being a little jealous of your life

I remember you calling and telling me you found a
publisher for Monster Fashion, and how happy and
excited I was for you.

I remember the smell of honey mustard and the sight of
an empty
Chicken Mcnugget box. (I was sure Todd left it).

I remember a box filled with fat envelopes of poetry
submissions.
I remember walking in on you with your shirt off.
I remember how quickly you put it back on when you saw
it was me.

I don’t remember the day you left Tallahassee



Birthday Poem for Jarret

Jarret will there be an ice cream cake with your name

Written in tomato ketchup at your party?

Will there be trick candles at your party?

I hate trick candles.

Will there be any balloons at your party?

If that's the case, I'm not coming.

Will there be gifts in big boxes

Or Pin the Tail on the Donkey?

Big boxes wrapped in fancy paper makes me nervous.

There won't be any showgirls at this party, right, Jarret?

I'm asking because I don't like any of these things.

I don't like canary diamonds or inkwells, either

Just so you know.

Will there be any prosthetic limbs lying around

At your party, Jarret?

Prosthetic limbs are scary,

But prosthetic limbs at birthday parties

Scare the hell out of me.

Jarret will there be nitroglycerin

At your birthday party or monkeys dressed

In three piece suits?

I like a three piece suited chimpanzee,

But I can't stand nitroglycerin

At birthday parties.

Will there be Vic Tayback impersonators

At this party, Jarret?

I can live with impersonators

Impersonating Vic Tayback,

But not half-eaten bags of pistachios.

Jarret will there be any live nude guys

At this party?

You know how I feel about live nude

Guys and Vic Tayback impersonators

Eating pistachios.

Jarret you know how I get,

How I break out in those little

Bumps I can't explain.

I'll be there as long as there aren't

Rednecks wearing ponchos.

Jarret, this party you're throwing,

Will there be board games or

Shoe boxes filled with green stamps?

Will you be giving away edible motorcycle jackets?

I will not tolerate motorcycle jacket hand outs.

I'm leaving if I see a dust mop or a single

Preliminary report.

If I see lemon-scented furniture cleaner

I'm leaving.

If I see an orange bathroom rug

Or burnt gingerbread cookies, I'm out of there

Faster than you can say...liver cheese,

Which I hate by the way.

I'm history, Jarret if I see rock salt

In little tubes, or purple

Construction paper at your party.

If I see one of those wide screen TV's

Or a six disc cd player, I'm gone.

If you're gonna have this stuff, you need

To tell me now so I can stock up

On gas masks.

Jarret will there be maximum protection

Panty liners at your party?

Who are you inviting?

Will Craig T. Nelson be there?

Will Marla Gibbs be there?

Is Corey Haim invited?

What about the surviving member

Of Milli Vanilli?

How about a couple of mail order brides, Jarret?

Jarret, will Jimmy Smits be there or Cheryl Ladd?

Jarret will there be any Solid Gold dancers

At your party?

Will Richard Simmons be there, Jarret?

Or Kris Noveselic?

I'll be there if Kris will be there.

Will you have white tigers at your party?

I adore white tigers.

Jarret will a poetry reading be held?

If so, don't expect me to read.

I despise poetry readings more than beets

And cured honey ham.

But I like poets.

I like to eat poet meat.

Jarret will the punch be spiked?

Will I have to take off my shoes?

I sure as hell hope so.

Will there be sushi chefs at your party, Jarret?

If I see Shelly Long eating buffalo wings

At your party, Jarret, I'm halling ass.

If I see stridex pads or panda bears

In low-riding Sassoon jeans,

I'm outta there.

If I see Anti-semetic PTA moms

At your party, Jarret, or

Stuffed armadillos, you will

Never see me at another party

Thrown by you again.

Will there be any cross dressing,

Cute Yugoslavian rappers at this party, Jarret?

Will you have dildos made out of macaroni

Shells?

Jarret if I see a single homemade ashtray

Or a bald faced liar, I'm leaving.

And I know a homemade ashtray when I see one.

I better not see a step aerobics video at this party.

I can live with a friendship bracelet,

But can't stand blue eye shadow.

Jarret will Beau Bridges be there?

I love him.



Hardwood Heart

He sits in the dark
like a bad secret
at the poetry reading.

Lingers through the double doors.
Hair, the color of the jellybeans I hate
shines beneath dim
vanilla lights.

Peer at him over my navy blue shoulder.

Arm settles like colonists.
Elbow taps the red Dixie
cup pervaded with beer.

Through cigarette conversation
you were a boyfriend
I have yet to meet and break up with.

You look exhausted
nodding off under
banisters & ceiling fans.

He knocks over the Dixie cup of beer
that runs and forms puddles on the glossy
hardwood floor.

The hardwood floor of my heart.




I Want to Be Your Best Friend

I want to be your best friend,
So what do I have to do?
Who do I speak with about these
Latter-day Saint desires?
Surely there are steps that must be taken.
I'm sure there are rules to follow
Before one can become your best friend; a series of
Tests I must go through like
Walking across a bed of coals, hammer nails through my tongue
If I want to go to a movie.
I will have truckloads of flowers delivered to your
wife.
I will come to your house every Saturday morning for
six months
And wash your mother's Volvo.
I'm going out to bars more.
Practicing getting drunk to the point of spending the
night
At the house of some guy I throw up on.
I'm reading a book on bar etiquette.
I've damn near got a hold of this thing called,
"pool."
I'm learning to curse like a Brooklyn sailor & fart in
public.
If need be, I will hit on a girl, talk about how great
her tits
Are if need be.
I'll eat her pussy if it means I would be the first
one you'd
Call in case of a flat tire or a battery that has
dropped dead.
I have curled up beneath my covers with short stories
by all your favorite
Authors. I take the time to memorize your poems on
Sundays.
Cut off the edges like a p-nut butter & jelly sandwich
& paste
Them in my journal w/ the black, velvet cover this
time.
I saw you at the poetry reading garnished in that
black dress shirt
You bought from TJMaxx.
You looked tired, angry & rejected.
Did Allison Joseph piss you off again?
Do you think she's taking your work seriously
Or using them like biscuits to sop up her husband's
piss?
You're more than a contender.
You're the goddamned, heavy weight champion of
contemporary poetry.
The Queen of England just called & wants an
autographed copy of your
Chapbook, Meat Out of the Eater.
You are the tooth fairy visiting me dressed in faded
jeans w/ side burns.
You're a thief w/ Stephen Dobyns' books stuffed in
your thermal underwear.
The Easter Bunny ain't got shit on you.
You are the Poet Laureate of the Universe;
The only God I believe in.



Reciprocate

I Drove past your House
Before Heading Home
Before a Late Lunch of Homemade Slaw Dogs
Before Doing my Math Homework
Before Writing that Research Paper
Before Writing Poetry
Before Changing out of my Sweaty
Shirt with Yolk Yellow Armpit Spots
Before Rolling on Fresh Deodorant
Before Settling Down to a Bologna Sandwich, Grape
Juice
& the Selected Poems of Gwendolyn Brooks
Before Calling & saying, I called you earlier but...
Before Taking a Trip to your Office
Before Beating off to the Mere Thought of you
Before Checking My Mail
Before the Evening News
Before a Bowl of Raisin Bran now with 25% more Raisins
Before Taking a Shit in the Woods
Before Taking a Piss in My own Back Yard
Before Brushing Grape Juice Stains off my teeth with
Whitening Toothpaste
Before Calling Friends I haven't Heard from in a Month
Before Writing a Single Poem about You
Before my Wishing you Were not Married
Before Wishing you were as Gay as Me
Before Jennifer Answered the Phone, Beating you to it
First
Before the Dream of Having your Cock Point Blank at my
Voluptuous Lips
Before Eating your Semen in the Identical Dream
Before Ever Thinking of Admitting Deeper Feelings for
you other than Friendship
Before Lusting After you like I have with other
Straightboys in the Past
Before Cringing as you Explain how Great Pussy is
Before Writing you a 16 Page Love Letter
Before Sending the Birthday card
Before Scrubbing my Balls in the Shower
Before Washing my Hair with Medicated Shampoo
Before Cleaning out My Ears
Before Blowing my Nose
Before Clipping my Toenails
Before Wiping My Ass w/ Flower-printed Toilet Paper
Before Shaving my Chest Hair
Before Shaving my Pubes
Before Plucking my Eyebrows
Before Calling and Hanging up Every time Jennifer
Answered
Before Calling and Hanging up Every time you Answered
Before Leaving you 86 Messages on your
New State of the Art Answering Machine
Before Kicking Cologne-Scented Notes under your Door
Before Buying you a Really Expensive Gift
Before Cutting the Brake Line to your Beige Ford your
Parents Bought
Before Slashing the Tires
Before Busting in the Automatic Windows
Before Caving in the Automatic Locked Doors with a
Crowbar
Before Stumping in the Headlights with my Steel-toed
Boots
Before Throwing Raw Eggs at the Window of Your House
Before Burning it Down
Before Stealing your Wallet, Cutting up your Credit
Cards
Before Breaking into your Underwear Drawer
Before Hog Tying Jennifer to a Garbage Truck while you
Watch
Before Telling you that I won't be Ignored
that I will not be Dismissed like some Field Nigga
I Decide that if I can't have you, I Should Move the
Hell on



White Boy, Dark Hair

Hi, I’ve been thinking about you
How are you doing? I called
Yesterday, but no one answered.
I just wanted to see how you were
And if there’s anything new
Happening in your life.

Nothing much here. Same shit in this life
Of mine. So where were you?
I miss you and wanted to talk about all the new
Poetry I’ve been working on. Why haven’t you called,
Jarret? I miss you. I’m so lonely. Where were
You when I called you last weekend? There was no answer

When I called. You said if I phone, you would answer,
But the phone kept on ringing and ringing. So how’s life,
Jarret, baby? I wish more than anything that you were
Here. Remember how I used to call you
And ask if you got any poetry acceptances for the week? I wish you would call
Me to let me know what’s new

In your life. If only you knew
How much I miss you, Jarret. Why haven’t you answered
Any of my e-mails or returned any of my calls,
Baby? I bet you’re living the high life
Up there in Vegas, huh, buddy? I wish I were up there with you
And then we would never be apart if I were

Up there with you. If I were
Up there, I would buy a new
House in the same neighborhood you
And Jennifer live in. My phone rang, but I was slow to answer.
Jarret I hate my life.
So was it you that called?

I wish you would call
‘Cuz I miss talking to you. What were
you doing, baby when I called you on Friday? Ever seen that movie, Waking Life?
I just got a poem accepted in a new
Anthology that’s coming out. I tried to call, but there was no answer
As usual. So did you

Get the birthday card I sent you?
Bought it from a new triple X store here in town.
If only you were here in my life, so I wouldn’t
need to call, but you’re not.

Jarret Keene is an innovative and engaging poet from Las Vegas, Nevada. In addition to teaching literature and creative writing at UNLV, Jarret is the A&E Editor at Las Vegas Weekly Magazine.

The following 4 poems are taken from his collection, "Monster Fashion", published by Manic D Press.


Heart, You're A Hospital Now (c) 2002 Jarret Keene

Nothing is worse than a dying patient,
Except the surgeon, who gives your life lease,
Cuts you open, removes a sick piece,
Stitches you up, and grows impatient
Of your bloated face. No wonder he dons
A mask, gloves. His scalpel is a scepter.
He's a priest to whom God must pray. Better
To chew prescriptions than become pain's pawn.

Darkness congeals like a forgotten bruise.
Tonight you will salvage narcotic bliss.
Each tablet, capsule, injection and dose
Is an angel kissing you with scarred lips.
Nurses read your chart over and over again.
Nothing? No more pain? Then close the curtain.


Question I've Yet
To Ask My Father, A Fireman (c) 2002 Jarret Keene

Do you repress the primal urge,
as Freud suggests, to extinguish
a fire by urination? Has a stranger
ever asked you for a match?

The human heart: tender or tinder?
Why do torch songs radiate blue
light? If the world burns, will the meek
inherit ash? If the world burns

with desire, who are the meek?
Do you dream of conflagrations?
Say you're to be smothered:
Would you prefer drowning in iced

water or superheated smoke? Can you
recall the patron saint of firemen?
Whom has he ever helped? Did you
know Abraham built a fire altar where

he planned to sacrifice his only son?



After Reading "Harold's Purple Crayon" (c) 2002 Jarret Keene

The sun. The moon. Draw
the stars. A road so long you can walk
many miles. A vast ocean without monsters.
A trim little sailboat. A beach

upon which to rest and enjoy nine kinds
of purple pies. A hungry moose
to finish the crusts. A mountain
to climb. A balloon to carry you

through clouds. A rocket that fires
you into orbit and beyond. A parachute
for your return. A policeman who raises
his baton, points the way to another page

in which you draw the girl
you will marry, and the child you will raise,
who renders the stars, moon, and sun
just as you have done right here, like so.



Highway Poem (c) 2002 Jarret Keene

Nothing helps.

Not the highway of encroaching darkness.
Not the headlights of faith.
Not the angels.

Not the plastic Jesus glued to the dash.
Not the Saint of Smash-ups.
Not the rosary
click-clacking
on the rearview.
Not the green air freshener
shaped like a tree.

If a hitchhiker thumbs you,
accelerate.
If the car speeds out of your control,
hits an embankment, explodes,
don't bother to drop and roll,
because nothing helps,
and still the flames grow hotter.

Not the 32-ounce Big Gulp.
Not the beef jerky intended for dogs
and pro wrestling fans.
Not the road map to Disney and back.
Not the radio of hillbilly voices
praying for terror, release.
Not the loveliest star.

Not even the radar gun penetrating
your inescapable mind.

ZOEY, AND OTHER POEMS
(c) '05, by D. Dixon


A Hot Sex Scene

We have forgotten last rain--
wetness shunned beneath graves,
roadsides, while we walk
breezeless dry.

I ask the strangers to turn out our sun,
but they smell of gasoline and sex,

fueling us with their want
as we lead them to the place:

cracked floors, bare and spread
from wall to window,
with straight backs,
no cushion or plush for pushing,

only wood--soon sweat,
skin and cling.

We watch the heat waving
between chairs, cocks,
and six penetrables.

Count them: three, four, five, sex.

Brown with wide smile,
shaved from toes to beneath arms,
trembles to Deep Sleek.

Someone whispers, Deep Sleek
from outside the window
where noon builds bonfires on our backs.

Wild Cry burns shadows out of the corner
till the place is solar.

Wild Cry is a palm presser,
bent and touching boards,
her one, two, three,
the only shade for him and him

and him, stroking far into the heat,
groaning ultraviolet, Fuck!

We are beckoned, sol blinded,
fire stirred and kissing the sun.



Naked Tent

I want to be naked in a tent
with you, in back yards,
under apple trees, stars
and watchful eyes
that blink tiny
as wings flutter,
fly and land
and fly away again.

Slice the fabric, love
and allow in the night.
Let bodies in skies
glow in my eyes.

Look at me
and fall in love.



Minute Maid

She tantalizes his heat,
a rounded breeze of flesh,
offering him relief.

He tilts back his head.
It spills over, streams down,
rolls with the sweat,
leaving clean-skin streaks
in the dirt.

On wooden post,
glass curves perspire.
Sundressed girl is fresh
and sweet.

He wants to leave her
on the tree, to squeeze
till she drips down her sugar limbs
into his mouth.

He dips his tongue,
satisfies his thirst.
Refreshing lemonade girl.



for our own good

I'll keep you below-bound,
contented with wines,
odd wares of twist,

breathless widths.
Come from beneath
your terror, be fettered
to this lark.



Splendid Cornelia

dawn spreads, dripping
color to shy roads,
back ones,
dirt and gravel.

groans don't come
to easy listening. rock me,
cock daddy.

play some honeydew,
pale green funk.
i got a brand new bag:

shading byways
with you.

our way
may be splendid
cornelia curves with spastic
orange shoulders,

but i'm blind
below your belt.

we hue
over yonder
and around,

through town,
to fill 'er up
station--

pink slam
their men's room
to the beat of knock.

let him wait.

later, roads mellow to mint.
he paints our wall
with his release.



a room

and window,
with shade-less scenery:

stream,
tapering to light,
and sky scratched
slender with trees.
no leaves here.

there is need
of me sitting,
wrapped in fabric
that could be skin. i can be skin
in chair slid to window--

only trees and tapered light.

let us talk chairs,
straight back,
seat askew with softness.

i like the un-clutter of this place.
walls could be Mona Lisa

or paper like faded lime,

but there is only window
and chair.

he was tension against my back,
with soft that slept me.

you be my chair.

i lean into you
and slope my back
and i am easy.

but there is hardness
in your seat.
you cause restless shifting
that flies me from my skin,
allows me to moan my way back in.



wonderfuck

your calls were obscene,
yellow coated and stretched elastic.
you spanked me with a butter-fuck tone,
mellowing me into soft acceptance

of being your dirty slut
for such tender perversion.

nothing like unzipped friendships
and sweating phones.
i was your wonderfuck,

collaged for cumming,
rewind slo-mo cumming,
my name vibing between your lips.

smudged me,
photographed me,
called me art.

it was wonderfucking.



Transcendental Lay

there is no need for dreams below grass,
simply to touch god. i lean into him,
with your every breath

over my back,
along the arch,
down to urgency.

rock me steadily into heaven.

and how can such bliss
(such a shameless affair)
seduce me beyond clouds
haloing in the sky?

all is divine in that moment
before i tremble to earth.



ZOEY

Beau Comes Calling

Zoey scrubbed her brood
in sunned water, drying them
flour sack fresh,

but boys squirmed
for summer toes to be
polliwog deep.

Now, dime store hair wisps
beneath her kerchief,
while footbridge sways--

Beau Brummel comes calling.

~

Pitching Woo & Tadpoles

Weeds poke between
vine and chrome weave,
curious.

Rust clings metal to metal--
Tink's Ford holds Zoey's
parked past.

No longer does her man trigger
her lewd reaction.
Tink now enraptures ladies,
winged.

Backseat sighs are pressed
forth, even from vinyl
and memory.

She twines Beau,
legs around his able body
for her release,

until muddy-pond squeals
seem too near.

In childish eyes,
dusk distorts Zoey's
tremulous surrender.

Beau is bloodied
by tadpole buckets.

~

Childbirth Fever

Tink tongues nude hearts
over scalp,
before swell of belly
in downward gaze
persuades hands to sweet below.

Morning rouses Zoey
with anxious beams of light.
Touch fades over thighs
and settles flat above--
no more babies.

(Zoey brushed away sadness,
drying it with fallen strands.)

She leaves dreams behind for chores,
pausing to knot her kerchief
and look toward the creek
for footbridge sway.



D. Dixon is a poet and writer from Virginia. Her future looks very bright indeed.