I Know Why I'm Here, How 'bout You?

Note to Readers: This poem is about sharing one's work aloud at public poetry reading events, a much attended, long lived happening here in Austin, TX. It's won a few awards. I have performed this piece extensively at Texas poetry venues, but not in a while.

Be Advised: This poem is recommended for ADULTS ONLY and contains graphic text!

I Know Why I'm Here, How 'bout You?

I've got this friend who says she wouldn't

sit up here with her action verbs all hangin' out

for the world to see no more than she would

pull her pants down on "60 Minutes."

But that's what we do here.

Here I sit -- my braincoat spread wide --

and there you sit,

admiring all my private parts.

"Wow!" you whisper to a friend. "Look at

the balls on that metaphor, will you?

"Check out the size of that adjective!"

I engage in linguistic onanism

for your voyeuristic pleasure and

you lean a little closer as

I get into a quick and easy rhythm,

faster,

stronger,

building toward an encyclopedic climax and

now, yes NOW!

Oh, God, it feels so good,

and you and I and

Roget

all lie panting, reeling, our senses drained!

You've been Mind Fucked.

It's what I do best

what I like best:

to stick my Bic inside some sweet maiden head

and see her tremble,

smile, and gee --

she even thanks me when I'm through! and

"That's the longest alliteration I've ever seen!"

she says in awe.

"Yeah, baby," I reply. "And I can

keep it up all night, too!"

Aural sex. We all come

to get an earful.

This pack of peeping poets

sneaking peeks beneath the sheets,

between the lines,

comparing meter length and size --

whipping out our felt tips,

our ball points,

our number 2 hard, hot lead.

It's an iambic orgy, egos stroking right and left,

forebrain, hindbrain, midbrain -- it doesn't matter --

swollen synonyms are stuffed in every crack.

Grunting gerunds, naked nouns with lewd prepositions,

adjectives ejaculated at warp factor eight,

infinitives split wide in all their pink glory!

tumescent type, turgid thought slick with ink,

slides into gaping minds;

copulative couplets squirm on yellowed tablets,

double dactyl dildos plunge into wild refrains.

For good measure

we leave sonnets sodomized upon the floor,

bloodied sheets of violated verse weeping in the corner,

limp limericks, screwed stanzas, buggered ballads,

fellated folios scattered on the table tops --

all in search of that one great piece,

that great head job,

that coming together of the minds.

It's an orgasmic opus omniumgatherum,

a piece meal,

a conflux of cantolingus,

tongued snatches of heated posey,

a lexeroticon of vibrating verse,

a rodeo of rhyme in rut,

ongoing, never ending phrasal fornication --

and you wonder why I do this?

Like Koop says though, it's not entirely safe.

those of you without rubbers pulled down over your ears

might catch some diseased idea

or break out in some rash decision

or wake up to find some strange growth sprouting

just below your hair line.

Yeah, well, that's the price you pay

going out to get a little strange, now isn't it?

And me?

Hell, I'll just get what I can from you,

roll up my black mesh prose,

pull up my read pentameter,

and slide into the darkness,

waiting for the next sailor

to make it to my pad.

First, though,

let's all have a cigarette.