New Yorker bound?

This poem will never be
printed in the New Yorker.
It smells too much like bodily function
And rolls out of the mouth,
belched loud, strong and proud.

No, this won’t be New Yorker bound.
Metropolitan puppies won’t potty
train on this paper. They won’t spill
half twisted lemon, partial decaff latte
on ties and Blackberries and folded Wall Street
Journals while reading this one.

Passwords won’t be needed for vistas of
laptops locks windows, and panic buttons
won’t freeze up hybrids, LL Bean Mountain Bikes
and designer mash potatoes while perusing this
Poesy.

No, the New Yorker won’t
Print this poem.

Unless of course
it was a lost appetizer of Trillin,
posthumous glib from Updike,
clever verse from Nash
Frazen’s corrections
or missing Thurber witticism.

Ya see, I hung up my beret,
put away my Underwood,
let my poetic license expire
and my cappuccino has cooled.

I lash down chairs.
Break up fights
and find my reflections intimidating.
I flex my alliterations,
jog with onomatopoeia,
muscle metaphors
and slap similes silly,
but they aint never gonna
print this in the New Yorker.

Bathe in consequence

You dismiss me
with a wave
of your hand
as if I am a whiff
of something unpleasant
like a skunk or a Cheesedoodle
beer fart,

or a pervert.

My demise has been
greatly hoped for

and for all the effort
you have made
to entice some pity

it is all pretty much
useless

almost rubber
intentions.

I travel a road
you cannot or
will not follow

Cut,
myself with
self-loathing
while you
decapitate me
with love

that I didn’t want,
didn’t ask for,
but is thrust
towards me
like a finger down the
throat

and we will both
bathe in the consequence.

Friends with benefits

And I speculate with trepidation and itchy fingers
do you ever google me or do a search on yahoo?
In bed at night, when his snores are not enough to lull
you to sleep and you are bathed in lap-top glow.
Your book is words down on the coverlet like
a faithful dog at your feet and the kids are sugar
plumb sweet, dreaming and bug snug in blankies and sheets.

Do you google?

Are you hiding somewhere on myspace?
Some moniker, like Raven Indigo or Jasmine Caloosey,
Yes I remember those names and the skeleton with,
nipples and you wanting to scar away you beauty.
Your deep eyes leading to pools of pain and fear.
Are you hiding somewhere on myspace? (Tom would know)

Do you yahoo?

How many times have I wanted to do a search?
I’ve thought about paying the $19.95 for the advanced
but I’m afraid to find you and I’m afraid not to find you.
We can’t have it both ways. We tried friendship and you waited
until I got back from my honeymoon to tell me you loved me.
You said you wanted to speak ‘now’ and not hold your peace,
but that option was never offered and $$$ dances were awkward
so we stayed friends, no benefits were given, none were asked.

Do you google me?

Do you yahoo me?

You said you were used to being the other woman,
a position you played often, helmet and chest pads
to avoid injury. Portable oxygen and a full canteen
for the long haul. Knee pads for the sudden death
extension time during prayer. With me you wanted to
be the woman and would settle for nothing less.
I couldn’t blame you. I could only blame me
and the guilt was a cancer, because thinking is a step
away from doing. I wouldn’t do or would I?

Google or Yahoo?

I think of you now and play what-if in my head.
I once thought you were my soul-mate
back when I was in love with love.
I almost ended matrimony to be with an ideal.
I wanted to leave the work behind and play
with you all day. With you even laundry was fun.
I remembered waking up next to you and
thinking I could take on the world
with a toothpick and one hand tied behind
my back. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t have been.
Could it?

Thirsty

Reading her words make me
scrunch up my face
as if I had bit into
a Ex-lax covered dog turd
sprinkled with dried rhubarb,
a side dish of Sour Patch Kids
and washed down with a tall
glass of unsweetened lemonade.

Slurp!
Got lips?
Got grammar?
Can you whistle?

And I wonder,
Do I write like that?
As if someone had
broken open my brain and,
and, and spilled out
all my thoughts
a barrel of monkeys,
a box of magnetic poetry

Words, words, words
words,
words everywhere,
words everywhere,
everywhere,
everywhere,

Do I put my writing
on the refrigerator, looking
for a gold star
and praise?

And when I purposely
misplace my modifiers
does my refrigerator develop
a gender?
An appetite?
A sex drive?
A temper?
Are the leftovers safe?

Do I write like an auctioneer
on speed,
a two fisted guzzler,
Red Bull in one hand
Rock Star Energy drink
in the other and
an unfiltered cigarette
dangling like my participles.

This is poetry after all.
Buzz baby.
The Bard Pard.
Bid you bastards.
Going once.
Going twice.
Aw, who cares?
I can’t focus.