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April 4, 2001
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 Now I wish I had gone all the way with Mary Allison in the front seat of her mini-van in '86. Oh, haven't you ever felt a woman leaning forward inside herself, holding out her soul like a flower to be picked? Merely doing nothing in these situations can be an act of athletic dimensions, like keeping your mouth shut in an argument, or not flinching when the bull rushes past, which in this case would be, I guess, the wild Hereford of desire charging past the Matador of sexual opportunity. Well, she didn't need my fingerprints all over her. Having just escaped from her Frankenstein first husband she was naturally looking for somebody just like him. Still, she was like a soft crust, it would have felt so good to push my finger through, to the soft center, and to lick the finger after. I remember her mouth so clearly.
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Commentarium (6 Comments)
Three lovely poems. As a critique, I would recommend just a tiny bit of elision here and there, but all in all I thought they were particularly lovely. Thank you for posting/publishing them here .
Thank you for your poems. thank you for your honesty and beauty.
Interesting political content, beautifully crafted and very sexual without being erotic. I'm not sure if that's good or bad but it puts a cool distance between the content, the writer and the reader. Like Camus condensed.
Chu Nagara
There's something cold-hearted here, and that feeling gets stronger as you read on. It's strange, because this is a poet who writes beautifully but doesn't seem to know how to feel or live beautifully yet.
The first and third are nice and vigorous, I think the middle one starts brilliantly, but the rest is on a different wavelength to me
Your poem is fucking stupid and makes no sense. if you have to write about fucking a woman, get a damn life and go masterbate or something. you have no poet inside you, just a dick for a brain.
Now you say something