Monday, March 7, 2016



You could be in Laredo, Topeka or Rome.
You could melt in Kolkata or freeze, up in Nome.
You could ride on the subway in Paris or Moscow,
You could sway on the buses in windy Toronto.
In all of these places, if you listen, you'll find
There are those who are foolish and also unkind.

It's the same in New York, in Riyadh or Tehran.
When it's time for the pooping, the s**t hits the fan!

As those feces then spatter, it's like rain from the skies,
Yet the ones who are s**tty persist with their lies.
So don't think it is better out there or it's worse
Where you're living—or dream that it's just the reverse.
There are things that are better, there are others not so.
There is s**t that is stinking, wherever you go.

2016 March 7th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York

Thursday, March 3, 2016

Queries re. Sex

Queries re. Sex
Is it Cupid then who couples
With his sister as she sighs?
Was it incest too, when Adam
Caressed his Eva's thighs?
As the pharaohs did before them,
So Ptolemies also led
The brother to the sister
On the scented royal bed.

But a wedding is a wager
That might not amount to aught.
So did Cleo serve her brother
With a service that was naught.

She would rather bed a soldier
Or a slave, for just a night,
And she then would have him slaughtered
Before he saw the light.

As she dallied with her Caesar
And with Anthony in turn,
Did she do it more for Egypt—
Or the power—or the burn?


Could the mallard, that is raping
The loudly quacking duck,
Be the soul that she was seeking
Or a lout—her loss of luck?

Could the lion, that is thrusting
In the lioness in heat,
Till she snarls at him to end it,
Be contented in retreat?

If the eye gives ease of entrance
To the ardor of the men,
Do the ear and skin and nostril
Feed the lusts of women then?

As the minds of some are shuttered,
So their instincts have their day,
Are the minds of others wakened,
So their passions then can play?
As a man might be discouraged
By a woman's coldness, so
Could a woman be incited
By a man who treats her sore?

Could the pinnacles of passion
Erode to ruts of rutting?
Could the peaks that men imagine
Amount to mounds of nothing?

Are the bitches standing stoic
As the dogs release their seed?
Does the sigh that is contented
Fulfill the lovers' need?
Is it passion that is primal
Or the letting go of fear?
Is it fitness that's enduring
Or the frailties that endear?
But the Deutschmark and the dollar—
All the lucre of the land—
Are they symbols too of power
That can snare the one-night stand?

Yet, could workaholic women
Find their pleasures in their work?
As a job nears consummation,
Do they quiver, gasp and jerk?
Are the humors of the humans
Reflected in the ants?
Could a bee be orgiastic
At the climax of her dance?

The queen-bee has the babies.
The others serve the needs
Of the queen and all her offspring.
Are they virtuous in their deeds?

Do the drones line up in order,
As the queen bee mates in turn?
Is the death that then awaits them
The payment that they earn?

Have we humans been castrated
In our minds, except the few
Who can wield their wealth and power
From the penthouse with the view?

Have the monks and nuns been neutered
By the mantras muttered?  Must
The priests who stray be 'prisoned,
As they've acted out their lust?
Have the plants been relegated
To be passionless, because
It's the feeders who have tingles,
When they've time enough to pause?

Or do they still have passions
That are slower, like the tides?
Does the tiding change the flavor
Of the sap on which it rides?

Do the anthers and the stamens
And the pistils sense the breeze
Or the insect that is feeding
On the nectar, at its ease?

Does the fly that scents the orchid
And then sees in it his mate,
Have a notion, as he's mating,
That he will not procreate?

Who can match the show of flowers?
Should the women show their parts?
As the fragrance wafts from blossoms,
Could their scents be Cupid's darts?

Are the spasms of the spineless
Superior to the spurts
Of the vertebrates, whose vigor
Must be lessened, lest it hurts?
Do the mussels, as they're mating,
Feel the pleasure that is felt
By the couples copulating
Till their minds appear to melt?

Does the octopus, accepting
The sacrament of semen,
Have the cresting of sensation
Of the arced and pulsing women?

Can we match the snails who're jousting
To decide who'll be the male,
As they slather each with sliming
Till their calcite spears impale?

Could the male who mounts the mantis
And is eaten from the head,
While his rear persists in pulsing,
Be in bliss, although he's dead?


Can an act of procreation
That dispenses with a mate
Have as much in it of pleasure?
Could it thrill and satiate?

Does a cell, as it is cleaving
To become its daughters two,
Feel a frisson from the rupture?
Is there rapture in this too?

Does a cactus, as it's budding,
Have a satisfaction thus?
Are there pleasures, in a being,
That are quite unknown to us?

Is there sex without the sexes?
Of the sexes, could there be
Not just two, as we're accustomed,
But in places more than three?

So a trysting might, in Venus,
Require a sort of dance,
As the figures weave the fabric
That is woven in a trance.

2016 February 8th Mon.
and March 3rd, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York