(BLURB)~~~~~~~

What are these? More love poems? (I could strangle Paul for that "silly love song" song.) More like un-love, or quasi-love, or love gone strange or astray. I had some "nicer" ones I wrote on V-day (victory? valentines? vd?) But those were not only too sappy, but also ... well, sort of personal. (Yea, right). The first is a tip of the hat to Brautigan. I love that suicidal shmuck. The second goes out to ... well, she knows who she is. And the last is for my dear friends who knew the end was built in. Enjoy things while they last, eh?

 

oh richard

oh one
that is what you are now
as i scroll up to you
where you sit
a beautiful bird
perched at the top
of the list
sweet small thrill
till i mention my favorite food
is chicken salad
now you're not so sure &
you feel the need
to dial oh seven
& let me know
i'm still
chopped liver

---

confessions

yr the one
that puts me in touch
with the side
that wants to rut
not exactly hurt
but nostrils flaring
and maybe gagging
wet eyed horse foamed
& you'd be all hosanna
if i hosed down
the insides
of yr lungs
as i came
down to your
leveling hum
eh? still
it's love
i tell
myself
you confess
visions of writhing
under truck driving
fat hairies

i confess
i flinch between spasms
unaccustomed
to be thus conjoined
with the word fuck
so hoarse and brazen
oh sweet pony
let me ride
down that valley
aching to be grazed
drag my boots cross
your wide porch
back door slamming
right into yr
warm kitchen
with spurs till on
cross yrself honey
'cause here comes
that side of me
that seeks
urgent trickles
whimpered passion
& a little death
whinnied out of
a bleeding sky
with a handful of nails



---

soft hands

i have soft hands
& they make fun of me
them with theirs so rough
yet so soft upon each other
& rough it was
when spouse found out
if yr asking me
(& no one is)
he should let them
at least hold hands
all that is truly good for her
should be good for him
think of the depth of that gift
but never mind me
me with these soft hands



---

click for larger view

My name is yrdog4now. Admittedly it is not what my father calls. Nor for that matter what my sons call me. Not only that, but what my sons call me is not what my father calls me. This may explain why I do not have a statue of dad on my lawn.
     I attended Bard college where upon entry I submitted my poems to an incredibly huge poet who the school was bust out proud to have on the faculty. He was a big poet and he was a huge person. The chair he sat on could not be seen when he sat on it. It struck me as a compelling form of tenure. In any case, he handed me back my poems and said "you can't be serious. I was crushed by that 450 lb opinion and didn't write a poem for quite some time.
     I've recovered of course. I now have children, a mandolin, and a few friends. Oh, and a lawn of all things. It is, of course, anyone's guess if what I now scribble ought be considered poetry. To quote Sam, "I can't go on, I'll go on."
     So I do. And you can call me Otis if that helps.