Playful Poems
These poems were written between 1996 and 2004. Mostly they are playful poems. There's one erotic poem, so I'm obliged to say if that sort of stuff bothers you, skip that poem when you come to its preface. It's really a perfectly clean poem, though, so hopefully even very modest types will find it refreshing and disarming. The main reason I am putting up these poems is to give people a quick way to judge me. My book is more important, but my book is so complex, a significant portion of my would-be admirers might avoid it merely because they aren't willing to put the time into initially evaluating my wisdom and genius (cranks and liars are unfortunately more common than wise men having great truths to share).
The next two poems were written about a beautiful French (or Walloon or, less likely, Quebecois) girl I saw in the Amtrak Cafe Car of the Carolinian, Train 79, on 15Jul03 (15 juillet 2003). I guess I felt more serious than playful, but no matter, I keep thinking about her, so I must put these poems here. We stared at each other while in line. She looked at me as though I am much more heroic and clean than French men. She even looked perturbed like she just realized she lives in a screwed-up country and began to feel oppressed at the thought. At the same time, I was thinking how charming she was to be so relaxed and at ease with her own affectionate nature. It was obvious to me that though she never had ever fancied herself in love sufficiently to have strong physical feelings for a male, her past reticence wasn't because she was afraid of her sexuality but rather that she was sufficiently in tune with it to realize what is the truth, namely that girls have to be quite in love to actually want sex. Our each envying an aspect of the other's country gave each of us solace.
She looked a little frightened that maybe I would get depressed and suicidal because any relationship between us would be essentially impossible. This made me smile because there is no way that would happen unless I had no experience whatsoever wrestling with problems, whereas I have more than enough such experience because indeed it is my nature not to ignore problems. I wanted to say, well, that you must think me one of those not very brave males who has shrugged his shoulders and said <> every time he has seen something sordid or tragic that might affect his sanity, or you must have seen too many French movies, where (I have noticed) about half the time a male commits suicide or almost commits suicide on account of a misfortune in love. Then it occurred to me, well, yes, of course she has had those experiences with French men and French movies because she is French. And the thought made me smile
The girl was extremely beautiful. She was soooo relaxed, cool, and intellectual looking. Usually girls occasion in me at the first sexual thoughts, but not her--I just couldn't help thinking how beautiful she was when she was looking at me. My theory is that this juxtaposition of emotions for a girl is a sign of true love sufficiently great that she could be the sort of girl I could want to marry. But I kept feeling like the end result was not urgent or important-a Buddhist-like belief that all striving is vanity. The way I explain this is that a girl has to be very calm to physically (sexually) enjoy a male, and if I am nervous, well, she won't be calm inasmuch as nervousness tends to be contagious, especially from an older trusted person to a younger person.
There is something about riding a train that makes me very cool. It is as though it puts me into a kind of calm trance from it suggesting everything is predestined. A train, after all, it goes where the tracks are, it is all predestined. And nothing is going to stop it from reaching its destination unless it wrecks. And trains don't start fast, but they're hard to stop once they get started. And the mere swaying back-and-forth when irregularities in the track are run over ignored, hey, I like the continual reminding that I can take that.
The beautiful brunette girl was riding amid a group of French people (girls and chaperones mainly, I believe), and it's kind of weird, because when I was in the ticket line in Union Station I had noticed another French girl from the same party-a blonde rather than a brunette-who was very pretty in a sexy way (I think she was the one who had a yo-yo she would shoot backwards, but I'm not sure because the yo-yo girl was facing the other way when she shot her yo-yo, and the girls were all together hard to keep separate kind of like a flock of birds). Later, after I had exchanged glances with the beautiful brunette when I first noticed her (in the cafe care), I realized that idealistically I should go after the blonde first. I couldn't find her on the train, though. The strange thing about the brunette was that she was not as pretty as she was beautiful. In other words, she didn't visually immediately jump out to one how beautiful she was-it took at least a second of looking at her to see that. My explanation for this is that the brunette didn't particularly want to be pretty. My guess is that one of her friends had had some bad experiences with males, and the brunette's love and respect for her friend made the former want to suggest they should be more interested be in studies and the like than in males.
Hush
Beautiful
The distant past
Must be awakened
Without
Activity
And
No concern
About
Anything but it.
The girl is carnal
Also
très intelligente
Made even
More so
My gaze by
She could have told me
What the truth is.
The mystery to be solved.
It's present
Within the ennui of her companions.
America, travel, adventure,
a disappointment
they're not too willing to admit
And yet here am I.
And each possessed
What amounted only
to a few instants here and there
they had collected.
A few specks of precious metal
In days of sand.
Her experience was
a shortest moment
It sparkled her eyes
Stamped.
An everlasting seal
(shhhhh)
Eternity on.
La petite fille
The pretty French girl
Looked sad
As though
She had
Never seen
A man
Who has,
Wrestled with demons
And somehow
I don't think
She the prettiest
Was. Just extremely pretty.
Very nice
She looked
At me
Though.
She felt sorry for me
And didn't want
To believe
People like me
Believe as I do.
It's as though
She was in disbelief
And didn't want to accept
It was the way it was.
It could have been beautiful
It never will be more.
Except in na-na-na land.
She feels sorry for
Herself
Also.
Maybe she thinks Americans
Are like me.
Maybe she wishes she lived here.
Her friends would liked
to have put her
In denial-Chatter like America is irrelevant.
Except one
I could not find.
Well, isn't he going to commit suicide?
No, girl, how silly,
Don't worry,
You are just silly.
Because France is silly.
Wrestling with demons is
no big thing in America.
Just like affection is apparently
No big thing in France.
This poem is about my thoughts while at my grandmother's house in South Carolina.
Actually, it is nice there--in particular the quiet and freedom from distraction makes it a great place to study. This poem is not playful, but that's just because artistically I thought I should transition from normal emotion.
South Carolina
[written 3/31/97]The daily misfortunes
Of life are
Clearer here.
Standing out
Lone oak on a hilltop.
I turn about
I growl
Nothing at particular.
The days I've seen this
Long ago.
Sadness comes about
Once again
A troop somewhere below to be avoided
I'll turn left
And walk unaided.
A cane will support
The elderly and aged
I've nothing but air
When I lean
I fall.
Grayness covers the sky
A high cloud here and there
Not much contrast
But enough
Yes logic and I'd rather be elsewhere.
Days spent at a beach.
Surprised by death I
didn't expect it.
A short and tacit curse
Will suffice there, I know.
Turn around then
And remark
The fair fairy vision
Of rowers heading to shore.
They go forlornly
Wayfarers for failure
Leading the dead onwards
To a place so simple
We should have known
It was there
But in our misguided ways
We thought love was more known and less obscure.
Surprised to find it else
We laugh at nothing
Just like everyone does
in South Carolina.
A few years ago, there was a very cute baby rabbit in our yard who enjoyed playing "dodge the cat" to an amazing degree. Very frequently you'd see him playfully jump up in the air, run, hop as fast at he could for a few yards, then turn about on a dime and go in a different direction, as if pretending a cat were chasing him. I remember when I wrote this poem that he acted like a male rabbit, but for some reason I decided to say he was female just in case. I liked him so well, I put a small bowl of water out for him despite people would think that silly. Lately I have seen an adult rabbit in our yard who is very stately and philosophical looking. He is unusually large and his coat is complex and beautiful in a way that would make him camouflage very well. Just the other day, he was looking at me as though I should beware of loving catlike violence. Of course I think he is the same rabbit.
The prettiest rabbit
[written ~7/99]
The prettiest rabbit might starve
Or be
Eaten by a cat
Without recourse
To water
The bowl
I filled.
A gray no
White
stripe
Around the neck
Sets off the head
And allows
her youth
to fully be appreciated.
So don't let anybody
Get wrong ideas.
There's lots of work to do
My parents are silly.
This poem is untitled. I wrote it on approximately October 5, 1999. It appears to be observing that additional experience with and observation of young female beauty would be preferred to more theoretical derivation about same. The space trolley mentioned consisted of two bars suspended by two ropes from a pulley-wheel held up by two wires between two trees in our yard. By kicking off the trees supporting the wires, we could sort of fly back-and-forth. It was removed a good many years ago, but when I wrote this poem you could still see some of the hooks, etc. in the tree that held up the "trolley" wires. Last summer we decided to cut it down the maple tree with the hooks in it at the same time we removed some trees that a mini wind storm had just severely damaged.
I don't really
know
About this
That
or the Other.
Happiness is not very unusual
and yet
Uneasy
that makes me
Somehow.
When life was simpler
And there were so many
more problems
without solutions
Girls tilted their heads
to tilt their heads
Nothing more.
Dark things lie on the dead branch
Crows chopping at the bark.
A little gloomy those birds are.
Nothing in Maryland to bother me.
At least,
nothing I want to do anything about.
Prettier girls
Play songs on the radio
And are on TV too.
Gladsome faces
One expects
They find,
mostly.
Cardinals exchange fruit
beak to beak.
Yes dear, we're bona-fide
fruit-finders.
This is
life.
That's what we think.
They aren't unhappy.
But every now-and-then
a hummingbird
meets
a loon.
Awkwardly exchanged glances
must ensue.
Sure, I would look at you
if you would look at me too.
Riddles ride like wild
on the wires
of the space trolley
Long ago abandoned
the wires lasted longer.
But now they too are
long disappeared.
Ghosts and a screw and a hook
in a tree
That's all that's left really.
But that's a lot.
More is spoken
In a glance
A remembrance
that she is a real girl
With moist eyes
And a life
That encompasses
An enormous breadth
Of little things
Everyday trifles
which taken together
make for a life
more rich
than what any single everyday theory could
attest.
I am sorry
I couldn't' see before
the madness
of it all.
The lunacy of reasons
a mere contrivance to
keep me sane.
Symbolically, for me, the corner of my street is where my neighborhood ends and the rest of the world begins. My complex theories about sex, girls, etc. (contained in my book, Exact Morality for Today), will amount to something if I can go past the corner and convince the external world of their significance. Parents as well as daughters must believe.The greatest truth yet
The greatest truth of all
(Or at least far greater than
those I know)
Is just around a corner.
Little girls
And not so little
It comprehends.
Sex
Its mystery
Less than those others realise
Holiness absolute
Against a backdrop
Of lust unrepentant
Obedient
Pleasing
And alone
she's scared of the lightness in her friend.
Afraid it distract me will
From her own darker thoughts--
Quiet lusts she yet rightfully
considers generous,
beautiful,
and innocent.
She can imagine
No concomitant behavior
That between us
Even a moderate angel
Could resent.
She does not view lust as
a concrete destruction but
rightly sees it
A mere abstraction.
Such maturity
An advantage could make
In viewing me
A nice, just person--
As personable I must be
Her lightsome fears to quell.
Song
She sang a little
pretty song
quite nice for me to hear.
I'll ask her, then,
"Why sing that my dear,
When you are here?"
This poem is about a sapsucker who this winter hung around our black walnut tree, licking sap from holes he drilled in it.Sapsucker
A bird pecked up the walnut branch
with his tiny little beak.
Knew he though he had to hide
For he did make it leak.
Girls in a circle
Girls dancing about in a circle,
their pretty selves to show
As pretty as the whitest blossoms
Laid one after the other
In a vase they go.
This poem is about how it would be neat to play hide-and-seek (or is it tag? I don't care now about the exact rules) with a pretty adolescent girl, notwithstanding she is generally considered too old to play such games. Five years ago (late April, early May, 1998) our family went on vacation to Marco Island for about a week, and while at the Marriott I enjoyed ogling three naiads in the swimming pool (I can manage to swim the elementary backstroke). It was there that I developed my theory of nymphetal philokalia (which I expect to be the most popular part of my book) as well as my theory that eternal love is an emotion which in males encourages genetic crossover in the gametes of female offspring. Upon arriving home and referring to a Biology book, I was immediately led to my theory of holiness, namely that the significance of the holy emotion that a male can possess toward a female is that it precludes crossover in spermatogenesis--this latter observation I expect to be to the scientific community the most interesting of my discoveries. Anyway, ever since that enjoyable and enlightening experience I have decided to make it something of a crusade to reduce Age of Consent laws. The bikini-clad naiad especially inspired me. Only once before have I felt such strong eternal-love emotion, and alas, this earlier emotion was inspired by one who most unlike the naiads was and is horribly cruel (in her inhospitable indifference). Anyway, if you are bothered because the last line of this poem seems to you like I am trying to suggest something vaguely sexual about girls, yeah? So? Get out of my face if that bothers you ere I spit on it. I owe those naiads a serious debt of gratitude. I wish I could have gotten to the point where I communicated with them verbally, but the vacation only lasted a week and people my age aren't supposed to have relationships with girls, so it was too difficult. Maybe someday we'll at least figure out how to IM or email one another?The charming laugh
A girl, not too very old,
played hide-and-seek,
"Away I go!" she cried,
and then?
A shriek.
Counted full well did I,
while thinking of that sound,
--not my favorite sound, to be sure,
yet not unpretty.
"Okay! Okay!
I've counted well,
I'll find you here
I'll find you there,
I'll find you with cheer
I'll find you with care,
I'll find you with fear
I'll find you in underwear.
I'll find you
and win this game.
You'll enjoy it so
You'll know
You're too grown up
To play it anymore."
Woe! woe! woe!, she laughed
Bad! bad! bad!, she chaffed
All around the house she
ran and yes I followed after.
Seven and seven times seven full
laps were run
With neither a shout not a distemper.
You must know, she said at last,
That I do tire easy.
"I too," I said,
"We could play dead?"
"I might not be averse," she said,
"To being led."
This is an erotic poem. A fantasy about two girls having sex with me, basically. It's very difficult to write erotic poetry because poetic direct sex words have conflicting and ambiguous connotations. In particular, when I say "fuck" in this poem, I mean sex which for the male entails no caring responsibility--I don't mean to imply lack of holiness, and I certainly don't want to suggest a certain disgusting behavior people sometimes mean by the word. This is the only erotic poem (unless you consider the one following erotic) I have written that I like, and I like it well. Turns me on just rereading it, so maybe it will help make girls want me and help their parents prefer their girls to want me. Actually, though, the main reason I decided to post these poems on the Web was that my book requires a good deal of perusal to be appreciated. A poem like this can be judged and appreciated much more quickly than my book. Especially is that so regarding my theories about girls, which of all my moral theories are the most complicated. (Unfortunately) this poem is fantasy that does not describe something that really happened.Don't fear her; seduce her.
She is not pleased.
Wants me not to want her girlfriend.
She thinks this neighbor-friend's a kitten:
Immature, silly, just not very serious.
So if she wants sex (not for me to make such a conclusion),
she would want sex all alone..
Or so she thinks.
_____________________________________
I can imagine us having sex.
The "kitten" being playful and light and nice she's first.
"Hrumph", you think, "I could do so much better."
So I suppose you would do nothing at all?
But just for the sake of argument (ahem, yes), let us suppose otherwise.
Suppose I went into you after having gone into your kittenish friend
(and she was there to watch).
She would no longer be a kitten,
Because she is a girl and not a kitten.
Not that kittens don't grow up fast,
but she would grow up oh so much faster.
Girls dance on the abyss of lust.
They paint white lines on the boundary,
plant flowers there, put up nice picket fences they see in the magazines
to protect themselves they think(and it is relevant of course that sometimes that is exactly what they do thereby).
Or on occasion they'll leap over the pit with a good-natured
mocking laugh or bounce up and down thereon with a bungee rope.
Such games...--I hate them of course. Dance and games are not about lust,
or something I would want.
I know.
They are about avoiding the lust that I want and we all need.
I don't want to dance to ipso facto please you.
No.
If first I dance and play, it's because I want you to come to see
That dance and play are just not very fun.
Because I oh-so don't want you to dance or play when we are in bed having sex,
OK?
The abyss should be loved, and if we push her in as deep as she goes because your eyes when and after you are taken are too beautiful for her to turn her eyes away from them, she will become
so very mournful, darksomely affectionately wet , sexually pleased, and happy.
I don't know why you are so displeased,
but surely if you could picture your friend so mournful and happy,
so totally consumed by penis lust as to no longer want to be free,
you would not mind her present play
nor mind my wanting her now to be as free
to be playful or even cruel (in thought to others) as she could want to be.
To put it bluntly(not that she isn't holy rather like you are, I'll try to be superficial in thinking about it),
she'll never want to be enslaved by penis lust unless she starts to want to be enslaved when she is totally cart-wheel-flopping ass-shaking free.
I don't know why you just don't see it,
But just a little while after having sex with me,
your friend if I had first
will possess a countenance that
the pleasure of your sexual climax will be so appreciative to have seen,
you'll never be able to resist what might bring or keep you at that moment of intensity of purely sexual pleasure,
unless, that is, I am not worthy of your having had sex with me to begin with.
I wish sometimes you could let me chase you relentlessly alone inside your house (you, shrieking often, playing hide, me, go-seek) until tag is no longer as fun to you as what I want. But the world's not exactly as it should be. Let's try to do what we can, but if we can't, let's try to understand what we would have done if we could have done it.
You and your friend probably can do to each other whatever you want. Therefore, either way, if you think you might love me (and maybe even if you don't), you might often lie down in the nude with her when convenient.
__________________________
Several days later I read this.
It all seems so silly.
Yesterday it seemed profane.
There is a dreamland that I can go.
I was not there when I wrote this.
I wrote it for myself.
Even though I didn't know
That
When I wrote it.
Girls grow up
They no longer care about me
Girls fantasize about killing people
Because the world won't let them have sex.
I feel like if I can go into dream land
I can have all the sex that I want with
the littlest girls
and I won't get angry at others
and I shall see quite clearly
that little girls don't like to kill people
while having sex.
Frustrations dwell
Just below the surface.
Were I braver in expressing them,
Girls would want me more.
Little girl so innocent
so pure
Let me kiss you
all over then
let us smile
and laugh
in dreamland
therein
shall our minds intertwine
as our bodies become one
as memories fade
of things not so soon forgotten
sex let us enjoy
when your lusts so wet and kissy desires it
like a kitten to be petted only
so much deeper
more serious
and pleasant
What really could more innocent be
Than a young girl full in love
wet kisses
moist insides
and still center
thirsty
yet not parched.
Rolling about playfully on a nice fluffy
soon to be unmade bed
arms thrown wide
before
limply sinking
from joy
of new found pleasure.
So much more intense than they had said.
So much fun to arch her back in bed.
Her pretty little waist she scoot backs toward head.
"Slanted then my waist I want to be when his
penis enters into me."
She looks back at him coy, glance so awry.
She melts as she ponders
his soon to be undressing.
Her eyes say
Sex
in every way
her pouty fidgety weak little mouth will allow.
Her head sinks back down sideways into the covers.
She relaxes with perfect stillness
And just waits.
This is going to be very pleasant
her thought.
Here eyes so moist and taken
look back at his face
Hers tries to tell his
something so eternal
and disarming that in dreamland
he is sure to go.
But actually
She doesn't want to look at his face
Right now
She wants
Sex
Right now
His penis
Is hard
And deep
Inside her
She feels it hard
and penetrating
opening totally new felt
love
and desire
she only could have dreamed about
Before
he had ever put it in.
And he hasn't even put it in.
I am melting,
she thought,
and that is not the best thing to do
when I need something so bad from him.
Up go her eyes to him again.
How dare you she says
With a glance of dagger
She mocks him so much.
Fuck, I'm already your total slave,
she wants him to know,
a slave before I've even started.
Doesn't that kind of make you kind of responsibility for my well-being?
You'd best go into me hard,
there's nothing else that I can do
to get what I want
except to make you know I want to get fucked
hard and
yet she would say not quite altogether wicked when hard,
no, she looks really hard and pointedly at his pants
where his penis is
to make him know she wants that hard
she tries in her face to show the complete intensity and comprehension of her self-controlling lust
for his penis
and make him know
she will do anything for it
and then
looks up
to see
whether he is now
more brutal
than she wants him to be.
She doesn't really have a clue
What the difference is
between her brutally getting ripped to pieces
for no reason
but her own stupidity
and his going in so hard
and to the purpose
ecstasy
becomes her day
and she would kiss him
all over
and be so wet
inside
and out
all still
and loving
and taken
and right.
She knows
he
can choose
and it won't matter to him
which way she wants
because all of this was decided
Very long ago
Before the horses
came
and
left
their hoofprints
on her soul.
She looks at him again
As though she is sharing his thoughts
Which of course she is.
Kiss
Sometimes I wonder
Where I should go
With all this.
A kiss
Perhaps
All I should
Suffer
Her to feel
In my dreams.
She is not
Quite so
Modest.
That
Does not bother me.
To go farther
All the way
To the core.
Something that
Ideal would be.
However, I don't really know
How to get there.
I hardly care.
Not that I wouldn't...
It's just that I'm not really sure
Trying
Should be
Expected to
A difference make.
Pink flowers
And recollections
Of lavender
shorts
With pastel tops.
Girls dancing about playfully
In my mind
Makes me realize
Something I just forgot.
If I could
Once again
Put my mind there
In understanding
And vicarious appreciation
Of young female
Fuck-lust
I would.
But I don't recall
Understand
How to do
What a more perplexed mind
Could hope only to approximate.
My appreciation
For her
Desire
Is
Most accepting
Of her carnality.
I'd touch
the short little hairs
below and
Also above
Her ears.
I would
Be reminded
The prettiest things of
Pink and White
Flowers
Gracefully set
By nature
On a bough
To be touched
And looked
Down On.
I hope she remembers
What it
Was like
To swing from a jungle-gym
She's just about old enough
For that to be lots of fun.
I can see
Her shirt falling down
To her neck.
When she looks at me
She wants it torn.
Then when she's down
She pulls her shirt down normal
And smirks, twisting her front opposite
While she's pulling
It around, her hindquarters rapid way around snapping,
"I've set things straight,"
she thinketh now,
"A nice clean sailor
girl once again I am."
She laughs
And gets right back on.
Wanting him to
Look a little
More
And to understand just how she wants him
to play with her,
So there's no misconception.
"This game is about sex."
That is what she wants him to know.
This next poem is something I wrote after the two preceding poems, I guess to check any insane obsessions or enthusiasms that those fairly sexy intense poems might have created in me, lest I become impolite.
What to do next?
Love is
Just Another Thing
That grows upon reflection.
It makes people
Less sane
More unreasonable.
None of
Those things
I want
to be
Particularly.
This world
Is stranger than most people
Imagine.
I need
To slow down.
And be extra
Nice
To all her relatives
It may be
That I'm a little afraid
To return
To Florida.
Absence
May have
brought
Expectation
I must not torment
Her soul.
I am very grateful.
But impostors
Lurked
And too often
Confused
Me.
Still,
It would have been better
If I had more relaxed
Been
Then.
As formerly, so too the present.
Now it is quite tempting
To say I'm done
And seek solace
From the refrigerator
Or from seeking clues
Whose existence I expect
Wrongly as it always turns out
Sometimes girls play games
Without any intention
Of going beyond.
That doesn't bother me
At all.
What bothers me
Is my tiredness,
All too frequent obsession,
And not being
Able to imagine
Anything decent
I should do next.
I've a faith, though,
There is always something
I want to do next.
If I just would
Relax
Enough
And not
Seek solace.
This poem was written August 7, 2004. Fantasy punctuated by realism.
There she was
There she was,
Clothes falling off,
Like so much down from a cottonwood
when the wind blows.
A girl as she just wanted
To play.
"Don't you want to play?"
she asks.
"Well, if you want to.
Oh, but I'm sorry, I forgot to offer to remove my own clothes.
How perfectly rude of me, don't you think!
Do you want me to do it. I mean, Now?"
Why yes, that was very rude of you.
But no, you must wait.
This poem was written the evening of August 14, 2004, after Hurricane Charley hit Florida. Because I (fortunately) had lately had some interesting stuff to think about, my mind was a little tired, kind of like a rough seas.
Beautiful things I can imagine
I want to be able
to talk to you someplace
with only around you trusted friends.
And touch the side of your face,
brushing back your hair,
framing it,
enlarging your expression,
making you feel comfortable in it,
wanting you to look at me.
Peering into the depths of your soul
But in just an instant until I have some thought about what I've seen there.
And then as if propped up reclining on one arm (so I don't have to waste energy keeping me upright) I
can think of you on top of a horizontal lattice,
In a tight white shirt with a bare midriff you rub the back of your wrist on and above when the heat of
the sun bares down.
And you're all at ease because you want to brush back the hair from the side of your friend's face
Just like I want to do to you,
and commune with her
and no longer be afraid to admit to one another that sex matters
a lot.
Like you are under the habit of being in the crowd of pointing at guys and saying,
"Guys are interested in only one thing."
And if you don't go along, you will be derided.
But you commune just an instant, and go on,
And think of the grass and the pretty flowers and bushes,
me,
the clouds,
the sun so warm and high and desert, and back to sex
because it is
all those things (well, as for me, I should only be so bold as to say I hope so),
and the reason why you are thinking about these things,
and you feel so because it is within you to figure out how.
You kiss your friend
And think about sunburn because you're practical,
so she puts something you on,
And maybe I too am on train tracks,
predetermined destination sex. But
my thoughts are only a poem.
No tension as I write for your sanity.
Or perhaps more logically, the similar feeling emotion that tends to go along.
Experience alone can make me feel that.
There are things I now can't put in internet poems because they are too sexual,
too concrete, or too cruel.
And there are things I can't put down because I had never seen them,
like how one thing I say can mean something a little different but still nice to you.
And then I consider that, logically, reality only partly matters,
how it would be nice if you were secluded and safe enough to wear just a skimpy bikini
and look straight at me and I could hear your chatter because magically you installed microphones
for me everywhere you turn on at your discretion.
And you could see me like I was right next to you
and so far away you feel safe and not forward and so
what I would describe if this weren't an internet poem
would happen before my eyes.
A warm day is like that,
sun shining down,
a morning stretch,
a promenade to the window in somewhat skimpy shorts,
you go toward outside and see everything before there (or after there--you won't care to notice)
in the warm feeling you have under your shirt,
and the way your waist doesn't feel constrained
and unable to turn
and you look down
purse you mouth
and after a drop's worth of all-sex pleasure
you think just a moment how satisfying and pretty
and move on
to pick up a book
fix breakfast
pet the cat
or whatever.
And yet,
I say these things,
and yet,
wonder whether I have said them at all.
It's rainy now.
A ferocious hurricane has just hit Florida.
Many dead, houses destroyed, not a few wounded.
Wind blows fierce on the open seas
And times was sailing ships often sank in seas far from shore.
Especially in seas like these.
I can be looking at a boring thing lately
and see just the thing,
detached from everything else
and able to demand attention like things didn't used to.
I'm not as nervous as I was when I was young.
The wind whistles up-and-down and I'm unconcerned.
The waves ply by like a rhythm for a trance
and like an automaton I'll turn the rudder so as to go along that way, no concern
for the violence of the waves or the height of the sea.
Scudding along like nothing mattered because something does.
Nothing to fear but steering like a mad man who can't be bothered
to steer so as to reduce his bother.
This was written during one of those times when I make believe that there be no busy bodies,
conformist third parties, or stupid laws to get in the way of love.
Vulnerable
She’s so pretty,
I hate to be away.
I must push the envelope
Of what those around me accept,
But just somewhat.
Truth is a virtue
Not just about absence
But also about presence.
I can say I love her
Just as I can say “fuck” here
Or “fuck” there.
Both expressions can be
An honest portrayal of my sentiment
Toward her.
Just as I can love something a lot
But not totally.
To feel such strong love
without caring,
It seems incongruous to the many,
But only because prudish people
selfishly are too inclusive in their usage
of “fuck”.
My fear
Of dishonesty
Or misplaced reserve
If I don’t sprinkle “fuck” all over like
table salt,
I wonder though if it is misplaced,
Or whether it is absolutely proper,
and I, writing tough,
am as a cannon shot over the bow
of the prudish persons.
Anger clouds the vision,
and when I clear it away,
there’s often nothing left.
Let me speak to you, then,
In softer tones than is my wont,
Not very much unlike I’d make love to you
should we fuck.
I at times sense inside thee
A wretched fear,
Not a standard fear,
that a girl might have for a man--
That I might be deceptive
Or insufficiently clean--
But rather,
That if you give much,
I might just be mean
And unappreciative,
Trivializing your affection
Almost to mock thee,
though I’d take it fairly gladly.
Things get in the way,
true,
and life often encourages me attend to other things,
but I can’t see what could induce me
to be otherwise than in every way
appreciative
And wanting to kiss your face all over
With a wetness suggestive
Of yours
If you’d only look at me
More openly
Less dryly
And less afraid.
I’d worship thee
more firmly
and with a seriousness
that wants even more
to put you at ease.
Seduction, in you,
is pretty,
not unappealing.
When that is what you feel comfortable with,
You can go that way,
Without causing in me
Any dislike
Or will to criticize,
And yet,
I don’t know exactly whether that be the best route or not.
Better if you felt as comfortable thinking in front of me
What you think of me when you’re alone.
Better if your kindnesses come naturally when you give them
Than merely from having been something you planned.
All that said, I want to seduce you.
No mere game that to get you in bed.
If it should happen,
it matters that you are at ease.
I need to make any fears you might have
go away
I want to rub your shoulder.
Your fear of criticism is
about all I could criticize you for
but I wouldn’t
I’d just kiss you and rub your shoulders
and tell you everything is going to be OK.
Something else, I guess, does also set you apart
more than I would wish.
You’re smart and brave and free of naivete,
that is, compared with other girls.
I sense an anger in you
At girls who play “Shriek! that reminds me my virginity would get ripped.”
They are not usually as afraid as they pretend,
their pretensions merely to hide their prudishness,
their modesty often fake.
Their playing up of their vulnerability grates at you,
makes you guarded of your sophisticated wise indifference to anything but love.
And yet, fear not so much the need to separate yourself from them,
your vulnerability not a game,
but something that to a certain extent would follow from the emotions
in my fancy you have for me.
Doe-eyed you risk enslavement, but
so?
Not like I’m going to view that as stupidity or weakness,
just as something you wouldn’t be if you didn’t love and trust me greatly.
The more real you seem, the less I would want to control you
and the more I should be able to.
Still, I’ll want to clean myself up some before I see you.
Want my room to be fairly clean before you ever go in.
Want my clothes to be crisp and fairly wrinkle-free and bright.
Not that it matters—I don’t want you to feel the cleanliness of our relationship
depends on any of that or on any analogous cleanliness on your part,
because it doesn’t.
I could love you just fine in a pile of your own dirty clothes.
But why?
You would be more at ease in a clean environment.
Emotions matter
during love.
Your being at ease
no mere scheme
to please
when to please
is what love seeks.
I want to seduce you
But without increasing your fear by pretending
I am seducing you
for any other reason
than your seduction--
without making you think
that if you are unclean in a way that doesn’t matter
you will be unclean in a way that does matter.
Your sexuality is beautiful
and good
and doesn’t need me behind you
rubbing your bare shoulders
to undress you
and tell you how pretty and beautiful your love is
in order for it not to be otherwise.
Though I will do these things,
(assuming I have the opportunity, of course)
I will also tell you that you
do fear belittlement
of your lust
too much.
That way, when I’m seducing you,
my seductions
won’t interfere
with your reasonable attempts
to make them unnecessary.
Best it is together that we make it so
when we have sex
you’re almost totally relaxed and vulnerable
to your own pleasure.
Pleasure will satisfy you more if
it lasts a long time
and is intense not just when you think
some conflict has been overcome
but with every fucking drop.
Not every girl has the same fear
Perhaps you know a girl who would have toward me a more standard fear,
that I might mistreat her in some coarse way?
It strikes me that is the typical fear a female has
of a typical male.
But just as your fears are peculiar to yourself and your own situation,
it’s the same with others,
at least that is how it seems around here.
Different girls need to be seduced
in differing ways,
depending on what their fears are,
depending on what they have become angry about
in those men who are around them,
in their treatment of women.
When I look at some other girl
in a way
contrary to how I would look at you
don’t be afraid!
that she has changed
or will change
how I aim to behave
during courtship.
It’s just me,
gearing my seductions
toward the particular circumstance
at hand.
One shoe does not fit all!
Some girl might fear holiness in me,
even though you know it is pleasant
and makes you feel loved in a respectful way.
Men sometimes fail to appreciate
that they can be quite resolved
to enjoy sex greatly
if it should come to that
and still be holy.
And so occasionally,
an excess idolization of holiness
could lead a male to not enjoy sex as much as would be natural.
One sees that sort of thing at times,
especially as a result of excess superstitious religious belief;
e.g., a good priest is supposed to remain celibate.
It is possible
for a girl
to fear so much
my trying to avoid
the (enormous) sexual pleasures she’d naturally give me during sex
that she just plain doesn’t want me holy,
or at least,
she doesn’t think she does.
No problem.
I try to disagree very respectfully though openly.
I am confident
That after (honest, of course) assurances of my going along with her should she demand it,
I shall be able to prevail
Upon her
to experiment
with being loved sexually
in a holy way.
She’ll like it,
And that will be that.
Oh, I want her to try to seduce me
even better than her wanting it straightforward.
Will set her at ease,
and set me apart from the rest
because I’m discriminating enough
to know how to enjoy her without having much unholy lust for her,
until she plays the game during sex to see if she can make me share her lust,
and of course she’ll win,
notwithstanding that in a sense I’ll try my best to win,
but you may imagine I can’t win that game with girls,
and neither would I want to
be loved otherwise than wet.
I love to play
the fairest game
fairly to win
and if I always lose
that game
that pleases me
because losing is such pleasure.
But a game it is not.
But here is a difference,
another girl could fear not my fear of my sexual pleasure
but rather my fear of her lust,
that could conceivably find her lust unacceptable.
Again,
No problem.
I do not fear sexual lust in females,
I love it.
So what should I do?
Tell her that she should be less afraid if she wanted sex less savage?
No.
Her fear is I’ll resent her because she is too savage.
Decorum is to overcome fear,
not to create it,
so decorum would be to have sex with her
so soon as she wants it
like a few minutes after she shuts the door
and be willing to command
her
to please me
I must be pure as ice
would be so nice for her
and her family.
It is especially fortunate for her
I know so well
the difference
between beautiful deference
and abominable enslavement.
I’ll bring about the former
with drops of irresistible holiness
when she pleases me greatly
without suffering my purity
to risk even considering the latter
except as some vampire
I must hold crucifix toward
so as to keep it away from holy
femaleness
by scorching a mark in its forehead,
the forehead of the evil sodomizer,
avaunt Satan,
away from her
and all females.
Anyway,
I’ll caress her lust
by going along with its enthusiasms
whenever it doesn’t want anything perverse
which will be all the time
because fear is always an emotion against abuse
my seduction of which
will be as innocent as snow
almost
as I respect her carnality
she’ll be more at ease
and less like a woman would be
if she were entering a relationship
where her corruption
were a possibility
or something a father would fear or scoff at,
while his daughter cries
because she’d know I wouldn’t fear or scoff at it.
What, then, is the next step?
Maybe nothing,
except to imagine
and daydream
us by a pool,
able to talk freely,
you in a bikini,
nothing in the world
to get in the way
of sex
because the world is more beautiful today.
This poem was written while waiting to change planes at Nashville airport on a trip to the Houston area, where my oldest sister and her family at that time lived. The girl I mention I believe refers to a pretty girl with a teddy bear who was catching another plane and was waiting at the end of a line with her dad. I remember having been struck that girls in Tennessee have a way of looking sexy at a young age. I think there might have been another pretty girl catching our plane, I don't remember exactly. There was probably a TV going on in the background tuned to CNN. The inanity of the supposedly serious news somehow contrasted artistically with the not at all inanity of the supposedly silly girl. The first part of the poem is about fear of crashing, I think.Prayer
[written 4/20/97]
From a place that defies explanation
Rest covers up the pall
Of ever once again
Impending doom.
Why care?
Why wear
Myself
Out?
There
Are
Better
Ways
To proceed.
Yes I'm not getting tired today.
Want that girl
Who is pretty
And comes
Last.
Perhaps I
may
keep my
eyes
open.
Palms on
The chair
Greta van Susteren
Tonight! On CNN.
Some palaver
About IRS
Why care?
For who
whom
no difference.
4868 is the solution!
Automatic 4 month extension
No problem!
It's the fix.
Rough estimate
Of tax liability
Download.
Coolness covers over the scorn
Bluebells in autumn
Pile of leaves
laughing
dancing about
in step
Catchy.
OK?
Girl in uniform
007
Little girls not yet reborn
[written 3/31/97]
That day I forgot.
Wrote poems
Don't recall them.
Write for myself
Or better yet
My intellectual
envelopment
How?
Don't care about 'net?
Ha-ha.
Not surprised.
Deeper, darker
longings
appear on the tongue
to trick me. Same
thing all over my writings
to pot. A very blind
faith this. That I can
write w/o trying,...right.
Slowly death coalesces.
The girl I love
is far away.
I realize that
at times
I suddenly
comprehend
the despondency
Am better
off
Cold.
Despair
to
repair
the damage done
my own laughter
worst of all
I imagine myself
On a canoe
Paddling down
unaided
The rock before
is cold
I want to
be so calm
No rush of
water may take me
when I paddle straightforward.
I look straight ahead
Each glance same--
For living, for dead.
Who will stop me,
I paddle straightforward
I talk with the dead.
Hell's about other side
Of bend.
Been there.
Heard?
Done that,
Will do again.
How?
Reckless.
I fear the lighter songs of the e'en more lightsome birds. They love me just cause they remember. I heard their songs and learned I'd die. Why? Because it follows from her indifference.
Birds of paradise they think do cause resentment I care not. Too much of birds it don't go as I thought.
Wish I were steadier. Liked to see me so. Don't know. Don't feel it proper to expostulate. I'm going to go to bed now having failed. My mind is a wonderful thing. She confuses me.
When I think
I can do something
About it.
Better off
Despondent.
Accepting
At
Face
Value.
The same--all's the same but studying little characters makes it so.
The following poem obviously was written on my thirtieth birthday, September 25, 1996. I like the way you can picture me as Winnie the Pooh drinking water in a serious pondering fashion similar to a bloke at a bar drinking his beer. I am a dyed-in-the-wool teetotaler and proud of that. As for the last two poems, my guess is that they were written at about the same time.Thirty
Thirty--that's how old I am today.
Don't look back, it may surprise
That one so old as I should
Not tell lies.
After a long day's reflection a
Mug of water.
Leave a little? Bother.
Disdain to recall the misfortunes
I fell for.
Long ago was a day I cared--
No more.
Not after recalling the days of yore,
Not after refilling the glass I drink
to the girl I alone adore.
Drifting
Drifting through space--the ethereal element. We destroy the seal and read with only quiet amazement. That girl wrote that letter. She didn't do it for mere amusement. Tell me (or is that too much of a strain), do you like to write letters? What, you don't like to read them? Oh, no, a chill of wind beats on the window to absolutely no effect. Trying to get in he fails at what he's best at. What else is new?
Poetry
Poetry, or what is said to go by that name--
Can we assume it really has meanings to us?
Or may we more reasonably suppose it gone--
The truth--lost in the haystack of fuss.
Well, I won't be the first to tell--
Not after what she has done.
Maybe I'll merely lean back & kickoff my shoes
--maybe I'll just have some fun.