Tame Madness
My patience is short this morning
For female poets who write poems
Of devotion to earth,
Of the many transcendent permutations of horseshit,
Of the mahogany colored intuitions and wisdoms
Found in the nutrients of fresh Merlot-colored placenta.
Share not your moon-cycles
That end with menstrual flows of gratitude.
Share not your transient thoughts of goddess craters
On the dark side of the moon.
Share not paterfamilial milk shakes of horror
Flavored with 4 tablespoons of refined sugar.
For this morning my patience is short.
My patience is short
For female poets.
Rather than swim in the hubris of service,
Rage against the tyrannies of dull minds.
Give me the treat, delicate luna’s,
Not the treatment.
For I want odes.
Odes to women who love bacon cheeseburgers and metallic blue Chevy’s.
I want pornographic sonnets sung to algebraic equations.
I want haiku for the sensuous arc of a young man’s ass.
I want sonorous elegies whispered to all flaccid cocks
That were tucked in and put to bed last night.
I want quatrains devoted to the worn black cowboy boots
I refuse to throw out.
I want rhyme schemes that sing “Le Marseilles”,
I want free verse that proclaim the virtues
Of unwashed coffee cups, fallen oak trees, and empty toilet paper rolls.
Liberate me with tanka’s about the existential loneliness
Of soda crackers and flags flying at half mast.
I’d be happy with stanzas sung in the key of F minor,
Couplets devoted to how red paint dries,
And four lines singing the praises of esoteric garter belts
That
Are
Too
Shy
To
Speak.
Where are troubadours who sing the songs
Of flat tires, cold french fries and insoucient cops?
Tire me not with your luminous metaphors for global warming,
Your incantations to aluminum goddesses,
And your buried afterbirth
Covered with three shovelfuls of peat moss.
Yes, I know. Common dirt is the product of the patriarchy.
Shout tercets for bebop trios,
For Dizzy Gillespie’s cheeks,
For the demise of glittery silver Birkenstock sandals.
For swim’s in the swift waters of the Smith River
Tell me an acrostic
Of how an emerald green silk gown
Lays on Rhianna’s sweaty ass after her second encore.
Mumble one line,
A single line
That describe the piss scent
In a Parisian tunnel
On a hot August day.
You know why I would like you to stop sharing?
Because you’re beautiful when you are silent.
A silence that only men know.
Let me know.
Let me know.
Let me know.
