Apology for the Alcoholic Tangerines

Its the reader’s job to select the ones that are still good.

Poems calcify to a point where they cannot be altered 

Sometimes they rot 

It's not as if there is no risk in eating an alcoholic tangerine

Many a monkey has fallen down

Whose reach went beyond his grasp

Disappearing below into a stupor 

Of careless intellectual indulgence

That said they are good

Desirable with an edge of danger

Tangible with an unexpected dash of beauty
A bright citrus juice burst in the mouth
And not devoid of nutrition 
Those who go without poetry too long
Develop a scurvy of the mind.

There is not enough thirst in this culture. Too much Satiety not enough thirst.

Where are the Pantagrulists of the 1530s?

There’s an interesting lot. They were always thirsty 

For knowledge. A reader of Rabelais is often prompted 

To drink and promised a happy hard on 

For his dime.

Why should we not be as they were?

While the tangerines may or may not cause a shifting of the codpiece

Who here has not felt an enlargement 

Before the great works of man in the arts?

I Dream of Jeff Nuttall

This dream is interesting because I am a woman

I am not usually a woman

Usually I am just an eyeball with feelings

I have come to realize that the people I meet in my dreams

Are myself I am trying to tell me something important

The crowded dance floor includes me

A middle aged woman lanky in a white party dress

My dancing partner is Jeff Nuttall with lamb chops 

And the aspect of the Cheshire cat.

The pearls are important because I can feel their authenticity

No one doubts her sense of touch

The weight of them as the band plays 

Caledonia Caledonia what makes her thick head so hard

A film of perspiration completes a tactile sensation

As the large important beautiful pearls glow cool

Under soft stage lights.

And Jeff Nuttall is leaning on me with all the weight of misogyny itself

Of course he’s quite intoxicated he whispers

But I can’t understand he leans in and slips

In his own piss falling on the dance floor pulling

And breaking my necklace spilling the pearls

Next I am on my knees struggling to collect them

And Jeff Nuttall is down there with me as I realize I have no

Place to put these pearls hot pocket he says pointing

Pink purse indicating my vagina

File them in the fleshy folder

Seal them behind the sweet lips

That are the doors of the temple