Loose Old Man

I know that his balls are old under his brown
slacks. I know that his old charming ways
slither softer than ever before. I bet the hard morning air, where sex used
to greet young, fertile sex, now stings

I bet his bones pick up the slack
from the way he bent himself in his
twenty’s. I imagine he spent many hours
on all four’s, in preparation, for
salivation and conception.

All these things that he dashes off in pride;
the streets,
the actresses,
the cosmos,

must not make up, now, for the way his skin sags.
This must be why his poor, old tongue sags.

My grandfather told me that loose lips are the sign
of a boy, not a man.

Fruit Family

Some children have spiders in their
brains, pressing buttons at bedtime,
stopping nightmares,
praising mothers.

Other children have tapeworms.
Cynical parasites eating
juvenile appetites and vertebrae.

These children,
my children, come from
fertile plums and pears.
Summer fruit preparing
for decomposition at summer’s end.
As  time goes, so skin shrivels,
plump curdles into plush and seeds
become fossils.

A fossil will not suck nutrients from dirt,
as it should,
as parasites do,
from Summer children.

These children prepare for
ripening. Drunk swans arrive in spring
mild pink bakery sleeps
through exchange
while a Summer child
tosses rotting

These children sit, arthritic,
decomposing. Smiling at
baby ripe fruit family.
fruits with  tapeworm scorn
creating  fossils for family to mourn.

Swamp Music

Note keys float out
swamp leaves, slit open,
hang out by green string.

Black notes,
A, B, C, float dark nightly,
through a
new moon’s ear piece.

A mad need, I am
bad seeds
planting roots
in last years’ moon beams.

Spread eagle.
Tongue tied,

The serene swamp sings.
Wants me
dripping golden honey
with springs yellow bees.

I asked the love beat
to swim,
bare feet

jealous oak trees watching
each move
melodically down stream

whipped cream
dipped in a breeze.

A wet dream
for an
old, dry oak tree.