Potluck

 

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All Late Winter Is Velvet

I’ve been to war
It wasn’t fun 
Very sad.
I bought a rose once
For a boy 
My wife.
He got a rose
When all he wanted 
was velvet.
Who am I to say
When he will come back
If he will come back at all?
Winter is the wolves running to the woods.
They’re a lot like wives that way. Listen
To them eat fried chicken and mashed
potatoes, split a green apple, then
God gallops in with the cavalry.
Ma’m, move along – Sir, 
you too. Mister Lord
Almighty kiss 
Paradise
Hello.

Stanley

I ate all this Adderall, 
reading an OK story about a dead bird 
Beethoven’s last piano sonata on 
because I have trashy taste in Classical music 
the futura palm trees swaying. 


The pianist Rudi Serkin minds his fingers 
as Stan comes out of the house dazed and naked 
Staaaanley from Newark who likes it there inexplicably 
who looks like he should bump into things 
more often than he does. 


You look at that sky he says wrapped yellow in gauze 
I grunt I’m reading a Very Good story about a dead bird 
it Just Reaches Out of the Page 
plus Rudi has plenty to show me with his friend van Bee. 


Stanley turns over his soft goldenrod ass lifted to the wind 
rippling his taint hair fine and blonde but there is so much of it 
but wait it isn’t the wind it’s him it’s Stanley 
thrusting himself into the green seat cushion
to my trashy Beethoven 
a sudden rush of keys Rudi drops in time 
he pushes in a wide slow circle 
ragged at some junctions at others delicate 
and I think OK OK Stan 
I can set aside 
my little dead bird book.


If only you could have seen his ass as I did 
hungry for cold cuts the ocean behind
split tetrahedrons that caught the light 
threw it back
sky took pinks, reds 
he missed a beat, try again 
the song played 19 minutes. 


And when he was done 
a concert hall in Berlin applauded 
Stan rose at a 45 degree from his inseam 
flopping back into the house 

 

ta da 

 

                                                 ta da 

 

               ta da.

Donnie W.

 
funny how it’s fallen on me again 
to make up for both our bad behavior last night. 
 
It comes back with the second or third cup of coffee 
having seemed so well deployed at the time 
like, trying to write a poem not addressed to you 
 
but there is no better you pretending to sleep 
or me on a pile of dirty clothes 
 
my curvy boner heavy on my belly 
the room hot from the vent 
smelling hot the window all blue 
but where it was red or brown 
you awake with your eyes closed 
breathing that was it oh my god.

Boris

 
I have news. 
 
My sexual ideal has shifted 
to a schlubby bloated 
post-athletic Jew 
sort of a Sven laid waste 
by Cheez-Its and, yes 
a lot more like my father. 
 
I want to die. 
no that’s 
not what I meant 
to say what I 
meant to say was 
I don’t think there is a poem 
or if I wrote a book today 
I could make it quite as big 
as what we did 
but we really didn’t do anything. 
 
Shakespeare loved a straight dude that way 
which is weird 
because we’re both available, 
 
That is all - - 
Oh, and police lights look pretty 
reflect on the tree 
red / blue 
blue \ red yes 
the cops shut down my street 
again.