Thursday, November 7, 2013


"Off-color language gives
     the world its hue."

Only such a gentleman as he,
Good man, could make such a claim
As this appears to be, so
Blandly, so matter of poetry.

Me, I can't begin to do anything but
Dredge the world, it's cry and hue,
And, sneakily, rearrange the deck
Chaise lounges of stolen English.

Persuasively weak man, I, who can't
Move the smallest noun without
The leverage of an adjective,
No verb without an adverb. Reverse

The universe, and even then I'll seize
Up in your vaulted orrery of days,
Catatonic, locked, brass-balled, ah,
Immobile. You love her? Not so, she.

Lady language. I learned early,
Thanking the sweeter, crueler stars,
That I was too low-born and prone
To the off-color hues of the dirt world

To be a proper lover of such as she.
I like to curse, but only missionary
Style in my verse. And I learned
My favorite poets don't shirk dirt,

Grunting to earn their little moments
Alone and stolen with her. Mothers,
Teachers, lawyers, bankers, liars:
All her dirty supplicants do the work.

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