Ruth—
that misnamed dear with
fat black eyes, staunchly searching
the Ginsberg lexis
(a craven attempt
to make herself out), has at
length deserted France;
now, with a Frenchman
on her shoulder and a half
breed wedged near the base
of her redundant
stomach, those fingers on the
camber of her thigh
may lie at last.
"Good,"
says the author at our building door,
"that there are no fires in Brooklyn."
But he is blind at 8:00,
and too easily persuaded by the dole of feminists
skinned by gabbling coins,
as good a donation as a hunger artist could hope for.
His only subjects of choice are
dopamine
and the sexual affections of male ballet dancers;
but he has never broached them in the same conversation.
This is why. This is why,
when we hear him talking about fire,
we are all thrown from the memory
of our standard/gather-round/assumed positions,
and why we all
"Good,"
says the author at our building door,
"that there are no fires in Brooklyn."
But he is blind at 8:00,
and too easily persuaded by the dole of feminists
skinned by gabbling coins,
as good a donation as a hunger artist could hope for.
His only subjects of choice are
dopamine
and the sexual affections of male ballet dancers;
but he has never broached them in the same conversation.
This is why. This is why,
when we hear him talking about fire,
we are all thrown from the memory
of our standard/gather-round/assumed positions,
and why we all
Ruth—
that misnamed dear with
fat black eyes, staunchly searching
the Ginsberg lexis
(a craven attempt
to make herself out), has at
length deserted France;
now, with a Frenchman
on her shoulder and a half
breed wedged near the base
of her redundant
stomach, those fingers on the
camber of her thigh
may lie at last.
Loved your poetry, thought it was a little strange to only have 4 deviations in 5 years... You haven't been on for more than 200 weeks!! Come back and revel in the glory!