- Drunk in Love
- Crazy in Love
- The Power of Love
- Till There Was You
- The Trouble With Love
- How Deep Is Your Love?
- Love Bites
- Keep On Loving You
- Is This Love?
- Endless Love
- Thinking Out Loud
- Thinking of You
- Vision of Love
- Make You Feel My Love
- (I Can’t Help) Falling in Love
- I’m Happy Just to Dance With You
Why are bathrooms in New York always cold?
In winter, even the bathroom supplies huddle
under the sink, and are of no use.
Not that big of a problem
to those with warm bathrooms and hot towels
but just think about it—
what’s worse than pulling down your pants
bladder about to burst, and that genital chill
worse than any fever you’ve had in your short life!
To bathe is to freeze yourself completely—
cold breezes caressing your wet bum
every hair on your body erect, even the ones
you shaved off just last night to look sexy. The hair’s
growing back to keep you warm, and here you are,
cursing its kindness. Still, three days is a long time
not to bathe—but perhaps not so, for I would sooner
wear the warmest clothes in this chamber
than rush into the coldness of that loo!
“The suspense is terrible. I hope it will last.”
Red Dress Blue
Glasses and Cream Sweater
White Hair Red Jacket
Blonde Turtle–Light Blue
Lavender-Gray over Black
White Hair and Beard
Sparkles on Red Socks
Dark Plaid and Coif
Suit and Tie, Sharp
Red Tie and a
Brown Curls and Necklace
and a Very Large Beard
You may find her in the heart
of an island out at sea,
giant leaves fanning her,
little nymphs at her feet
and when you find her
you may bow to her,
sing her songs, give her treats
tokens she holds forever
even after you leave,
because you know you are destined to leave,
to keep looking
for some distant queen–
because something about
her being a goddess
makes you think
you want to stay
but nothing about
appeases you quite
the same way.
And some leaves are already falling—
not red, not orange, not yellow, nor beautiful
but coarse, crinkly, and brown—
and already the air feels cooler, the breeze crisper
or was that just the placebo’s whisper?
Yes, this is best:
a cosmopolitan on the balcony
the leaves of the trees obscuring the sun
and your dog at our feet, warming his chest,
wagging his tail for anything, and anyone.
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for Leslie King
Hey tickle tickle, the snail and the pickle
The rat meows in bed.
The street kitty barks, a rabid delight
And the snail crawls all over it’s head!
One, two, “I like you.”
Three, four, “Clothes on the floor.”
Five, six, “Got nude pics?”
Seven, eight, “He comes, you wait.”
I call out to thee
The nothingness I see
Trembling in the trees
Tonight I wish a miracle:
For this fuck boy to text me!
Slut Queen, Slut Queen
Had a little dream. First there was a pauper
Then there was a King.
Then they had a castle
Then they had a dream: two little babies
In their bed, asleep.
You listen to classical music and to the cars
which seem to carry the melodies of
Moonlight Sonata right before your very ears.
Even the construction workers beat in time.
You remember a time that seems
not so long ago, the goofy glasses from New Years Eve
in year 2000, which seem ancient now
along with flip-phones, candy jewelry,
and the idea of children playing
or walking to school by themselves.
I’m not sure if it was the transition from
child to teen, or something that happened
outside of me, that changed all that.
All I know is I’m tired, the whole city is tired
and history only serves to teach me
that some things just never change.
King of the Night!
Rest your head upon my bed,
and never do take flight!
Your mouth is all but wanting
your eyes are full of spite
so take me here! yes, take me now!
to drown in love’s delight.
He dreamed of her hungry body,
that surging bed of hair—
she was passion, ready and willing,
a grand piano secret lover.
darling of the wind and sea.
You come and go through my window
like a feral cat through the trees.
Oh, Juanito, stay a while longer!
I’m perspiring, can’t you see?
There’s something I’ve been wanting
to tell you…but first, kiss me, kiss me!
He lapped up her touch, her beauty,
he felt his loins ignite—
her lust was his doing, his duty, he thought
and like a man, he must do what he must.
“You savage!” she cried
as they ripped open burning
desire, his big dog entwined
with her eager breast—
her naked body barking at the moon—
she had been only “satisfied” until then
but then the doors flew open
and it was none other than—
It’s not what it looks like!
We were just doing yoga
and this is how you do it right!
He dreamed of her virtuous body
her verses, her promises, their strife—
it seemed she had given them up
to make a pass at a bohemian life.
And so goes the recipe of love:
two parts treachery, three parts gin
a splash of lime juice and bitters
and just a dash of sin.
“The only true thoughts are those
which do not grasp their own meaning.”