I had an unexpected visitor this morning. My next-door neighbour—
a magpie who had built a nest in the tree outside my living room window—
perched on the windowsill and watched me for a moment but soon returned
to its humble dwelling. I guess Vrikshasana wasn’t all that captivating,
and I looked completely harmless in the early spring sunlight—
a scarecrow behind the double glazing.
I wonder if the magpies building a nest in the tree outside my window
would care about Lenin’s invention,
or if the seagulls crying on the roof of the church across the street
would be fond of hashtagging their vaginas,
because if I were a woman,
I would probably feel offended today;
but since I’m not, I’d rather wait a few days
for free sake and a glorious view of youbutsu.
Perhaps one day we’ll finally find peace
beyond our genitals.
I had a stew
made with butternut squash,
sweet potatoes,
and sun-dried tomatoes
for dinner tonight—a humble result
of emptying the fridge into a pot
in the hope that the final product
would be edible—while listening to Joni
when the thought came to me
how utterly ridiculous creatures we are,
stuffing our mouths
only to excrete some hours later,
repeating it over and over again like markers
in an indefinite stretch of time between now and then,
and in the end none of us is any wiser;
everyone is just making it up as they go,
but perhaps some are better
at pretending
that they know clouds.
I don’t own a telly or that defining piece of furniture
that usually occupies a prominent spot in the living room,
yet I’m indistinguishable from your average couch potato,
at least in spirit, if not in body (although the latter is slowly
catching up with that image), which makes me wonder:
Is the bookworm a social pest or just a harmless homebody?
I can’t remember what came first: I stopped dating or going to the beach,
and honestly, I’m not sure that’s even something worth dwelling on
since, considering those measly three dates, there wasn’t much to give up on that front,
whereas it was the beach that made me stay here all those years ago.
But don’t worry; I’ll be fine. After all, I was raised in tough times—I can survive
a minor withdrawal.
There is no question that I would like to know the answer to
more than: Why do people have to love people, anyway?
I guess it will remain as much of a mystery now as it was then.
At least spelling is no longer a problem, even for a dyslexic like me.
But I could use a bit of that ‘easy come, easy go’ attitude,
if only to save face—after all, not every hopeless romantic can live
up to the silver screen.
With the streets still scarred by the night’s sobbing, New Year’s Day wakes up
cold—unusually warm for January, though—and dark, with an overcast sky
and a looming hangover, not quite ready for the fake yoga and a full breakfast,
let alone the sight of Kevin Kline making love to Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio.
I had forgotten what it was like to lie close to someone—the warmth, the scent,
the thrill of the brush against each newfound curve, the sound of rapid breathing
and barely suppressed moans—but I hoped that life would catch up eventually,
maybe in a year or two, and yet another one has just passed without any change.
Actually, the last statement is not entirely accurate. After all, I’m a year older
and that much less attractive.
There’s no grandeur in the art
of fellatio without embracing the fact
that you’re gonna get hurt either way,
whether you swallow or spit
(which you probably wouldn’t think about
on New Year’s Eve, if ever),
if the recipient happens to be a theocon,
because he either accuses you of abortion
or cannibalism—bad jokes aside, let’s hope
the new year brings us a soixante-neuf
with more of that ‘Make love, not war’ vibe.
If I felt obligated to begin by warning
that this stanza may contain content that is offensive
or at least inappropriate for some readers,
would it make the image of me holding my cock
in front of a computer screen any less poetic?
And where would the debasement of style actually occur:
in the grandiloquent expression for my superannuated manhood
or in the reference to coaxing Salinger
to come out and play?
hidden pilcrow 