Poetry




			Poetry Index Thank You Frank O'Hara I Speak of Your Body She is Sad On Being a Woman Waking Thank You Frank O'Hara Women of America let your breasts hang out! Get them out of their pink blouses so they won't dry up like peaches. It's true that fresh air is good for the heart but what about your breasts, that grow hidden covered by red silky bras? When you grow old, as you must, they will hang, knocking against your knees eventually reaching some Latin American country. They will be grateful to you (for their first sexual experience) which will only cost your heart no one suspected their pain. Your breasts will hide in the next round from gratuitous hands of greed searching around them as though looking for loose change Women, you will make your beautiful breasts so happy if you do not allow them to be juggled they will know the difference (and if somebody does it'll be sheer gravy). They will be truly happy, ecstatic, perky and (don't blame me if you won't take this advice) and your breasts grow old and prunie Women of America You must let your breasts hang out! Return to Top I Speak of Your Body I bury you in my mouth, resurrect you in my weary thighs. We live in news papered streets, broken trucks, empty bars, the bottom of stale glasses, each other. your body lures me to dream of restless change, waking every hundred years to find us the same. to go back, back, back to brown clay, molding and bathing you in the blue river of time. we are nothing more, yet I cannot leave your body. I speak of your rigid root built for my glowing well. I speak of your glistening tower, my teacher, jailer, and confessor. giving you everything, watching it turn to gray poisonous perfume with bronze colors and milk flavors of your body. I speak of the endless parade of my words die stumbling off my lips over your body onto the floor. Return to Top She Is Sad there is a girl, feet small, made of used clay, loneliness is inside her bones, like a faucet dripping, leaking into muscles and the skin pushing to form droplets on the fine hair of her body. bones full of emptiness that murmurs, moves through congested veins like a drain clogging, as though she is sealing herself, I see her (alone) breaking her fingers, cutting off toes, in attempts to release the pressure, stapling her self back together only to find Nothing has changed. Return to Top On Being A Woman It happens that I am tired of being a woman. It happens that I go into porn shops and dirty movies All worn out, chipped, like a porcelain plate cracked, rubbed raw by too many beds. It happens that I am tired of my breast and ass, and my maternal instincts. It happens that I am tired of being a woman. Just the same it would be delightful To devour a man in a bath of fresh cut lilies Our skin covered in everlasting pollen. It would be beautiful To run through the streets naked Looking for her (me) until I died of cold. But I do not want to go on being a woman, miserable, used up, with no dreams, heading down, back in to the ground, to the tomb already filled with corpses of past lovers, stiff with cold- Dying with pain. Return to Top Waking In a long lazy summer- sweet mornings. White silk sand covering the bedroom floor. The salty warm smell of your fingers. Fire on my lips and tongue. Unbuttoning each other. Between the legs right there. Return to Top