[I have stepped on your book of poems and I’m very sorry.]
I have stepped on your book of poems and I’m very sorry.
Really. You are probably thinking there’s some ironic payoff
But there isn’t: I felt a spasm inside like an act of sacrilege
And yet of course at the same time I’m thinking Oh,
Who cares, what difference does it make? We all know
That most of the terrible things people do are done
Inadvertently, and if in pursuit of a plan, always
In the conviction that these little lies and murders
Serve some higher purpose that the victim just wouldn’t
Sign on to when rational means of persuasion ran out
And so . . . just a little push off the cliff of mutual toleration
Although sometimes you have to admit to an “accident”
Even if accidents really happen only when you aren’t
Paying attention as you should, aren’t being “mindful,”
Or unthinkingly put your desires above everyone else’s needs
I mean you might as well just plow into them on purpose
As make a pretense of wishing that it hadn’t happened
After the fact, after you got to make the left turn
From the right lane that outweighed common sense
Or you forget something it would have been inconvenient
To stop off and pick up or you lose hold of the door
And it snaps back right into your friend’s face: “Whoa!
I did not see THAT coming!” but really, seriously now,
Is he really that good a friend? You’re not the type to compete,
You don’t have that bone of envy in your body, but somehow
You’d forgotten to thank him for the book that is now
Lying on the floor with a footprint on its lovely pink
And pale yellow face, but whatever, he did win all those
Awards, and I swear I really would apologize to you properly,
In person, and make it all up to you in the love and support
I would show you, if only you hadn’t died long, long ago.
Blow Job Sonnet
Lest we forget: Andy Warhol’s Blow Job is about 25 minutes of close-
Up of a man’s head, posed by a wall of concrete block. Sometimes
His expression changes. . . . Looks like the “Beer Pong Rapist”
Was sentenced today. My sentences, when I’m in one of my moods—
I don’t know much about these moods, mind you, but I’m told
I have them—do seem a lot like shouting “blow job” in a crowded
Theater when all you’re about to show is some shady dude’s
Head. You keep hearing that sex is supposed to be real fun,
Right, and of course getting wasted is cool, and who doesn’t like
Ping pong? Turns out, though, when all you’re asking for is a little
Action, you know, harmless, nobody gets hurt, either you end up with
No blow job at all, or some weirdo has you in “a compromising position.”
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly
Into the past—where a harmless little bj is practically unheard of.
