Your friends are super-fine
And I’ve seen them in the back seats
In the back of the bus
Or the movie theatre figuring 69:
And this is what I do when I am not
Hiking,
When my imbedded molars are aching
From cheap liquor,
And I persistent to write in freeform,
Not rhyme:
But there you go, in silent parks which aren’t
Real,
Under slash-pine: sweaty, humid and recreational
In the daytime:
They have no sums or parking codes,
But at night they provide shelter for the nocturnal
Scavengers and homosexual hobos:
Beardless, how could you tell Walt Whitman
From most anyone else,
Even his poetry couldn’t keep time;
And these words are an enigma, like in the
Shallow pine forest next to the golf course I used
To jog in and bemuse myself with jealously over
The desirous position of my major professor;
But now you situated yourself into a greater design of
Love, another of your ancient tribe;
But I’ve read about the Macabees, and I am that
Kind of warrior: Listen to me scream well rummed
To the Roman night:
I never loved you, but amused myself by the lesbian
Theatre down in the bohemian pool- You don’t even
Remember: housewife to a lawyer now just slightly
North of Boca,
And I have certain scars you shall never see, new forms
Of embarkations on the old form body,
And tonight the park close to your abandoned house
Is mine: I will not petition the moon for you;
Whatever rhymes I choose tonight are mine.
Whatever Rhymes I Choose Tonight
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