If you suck his daughter’s horse eyeballs
before an opaque moon
because she’s all that’s available
to slouch in that ratty ‘67 Ford pick up…
(Well, Christ, you’re doing it).
and as you flutter feather your hands
with calculated bass fiddle rhythms
and then mind grin at the ease
her corn stubble tempo increases…
(So the power of the moment explodes).
and so wet with wonder and waste
her corn silk breath covering the windows –
the 10:19 train whistle in the distance:
(It is awkward now, isn’t it?)
because she hasn’t said a word
but you know she is going to.
I’m Sick And Tired Of Effeminate Poetry
As a child, this poem was mean to animals.
It swung cats by their tails just for fun.
Old maid grade school teachers made examples of it.
It always has a runny nose.
At recess, it hit little girls in the face.
It never wore a coat in the winter.
Decent children couldn’t play with it.
Its parents are immigrants.
Often it smelled of garlic and dirt.
In high school, this poem was in the slow section.
It snapped towels at people in the locker room.
Young girls were attracted to it. It used them.
It was know to cheat on tests.
Twice it was expelled for smoking.
It worked at a gas station and drove a “hot” Chevy.
It stole parts from your car during check ups.
Somehow, it graduated.
That night it got totally drunk
It faked its way into community college.
While there, it smoked a little dope with your daughter.
It read books written by communists.
Then it grew a beard and long hair.
It put PLAYBOY centerfolds on the walls of its room.
On weekends, it marched against the establishment
and taught your son how to seduce young women.
When it flunked out, it owed an entire year’s tuition.
Here it is.
Old ladies are afraid of it.
The police watch it.
Ministers preach against it.
It doesn’t give a shit.
Nobody will publish it.
Editors are afraid it will bring nasty letters.
It just waits.
Someday, it will get in your home.
The few women
to execute love
were all failures.
When my name
they hurl curses
that would peel
paint of the walls.
At the gym,
through dark Chinese eyes,
and thin red lips,
you invite me
for a vegan Hu lunch.
I take no particular
interest in you,
but I am hungry.
Three weeks later,
in a rare moment of sanity,
there is probably
a lot of mail
to sort through
and the goldfish
are probably floating.
R. Gerry Fabian is a retired English instructor. He has been publishing poetry since 1972 in various poetry magazines. His web page is https://rgerryfabian.