Two Poems

Adagia 251-300

251.  Which lesser weasel would you be?
252.  Bad men marry badly. Wolf forfeits sheep.
253.  No hoodie lines for kings.
254.  Never a narc, never a writer.
255.  My dead friend says so.
256.  Man’s bus and feet.
257.  Everybody’s nervous.
258.  If you prefer a horse, then draw the curtain at least.
259.  Get in the van get in the van get in the van.
260.  No god can muster up a ride home.
261.  A horse’s alibi precedes God’s.
262.  Hold my teeth.
263.  My everchanging fingermoods.
264.  Night dies. Noble land. The total breast.
265.  My arm makes things mother, easier.
266.  All bullets attack.
267.  All moves in lapdances.
268.  All the rude moves.
269.  All jacks alarms.
270.  Vela ventis permittere
271.  Under every ass is a sleeping scorpion.
272.  Sing a song for my ass.
273.  Your tuba is audible.
274.  Cum on feel your gracious ball-cans?
275.  Under ass, the current friends.
276.  Alien meets messenger.
277.  The annual sambo tree transplant.
278.  Arnold meter under numbers.
279.  Ahead of his time, behind my ballsack.
280.  Enough about the lyrical shortage.
281.  The arena tells me.
282.  Soak my lesser bricks.
283.  The rare litter.
284.  In your waterface.
285.  In saxophones, seminars.
286.  Ignore disections.
287.  Write in water.
288.  Wear make-up in arenas.
289.  Our furrier natures.
290.  A pud finds odor, a spazz vapor.
291.  To be old, venti, and black.
292.  Right. Come on me.
293.  It’s quiet. Either that or you farted.
294.  You and your dead arms.
295.  We all exit eventually.
296.  The adult egg is large.
297.  You trim, see a dice.
298.  You trim skin.
298.  The gentle monument is always engorged.
300.  The monument is always male.



Traci Lords is on NPR!

I’m slunk over through Lance

with the news, an arthouse Creature

from the Black Lagoon—

Get the porn princess on the radio already!

Let her set the record straight! Get through

the segment on the future of the church.

Who cares? Let her speak. Don’t ask hard questions.

Just marshmallows. Don’t be too hard on her.

No ghost writers, no short stories. Just two people

in a room. Thank god for spell check—

Because I was frustrated that this is what it would be

like. It was like throwing up.




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