lily

i never thought i
might love a blonde-haired
girl, for no
other reason than my previous loves
have all been darker

or one named for a lily
or any spring flower for that matter
as you are

but the vernal morning
flush on your cheeks
matching lips, full and
moist and red, fresh

without lipstick or other
pretense; mist escaping your teeth
as you breathe the hard cool
air, as we are
escaping the hard teeth of winter,

is captivating; how can i
love any other than you?

you, who projects warmth
on all cool mornings,
with a kindly heart
a sensual heart
who makes other men feel as
i do, who does it unconsciously,
selflessly, philanthropically

as i drink you in
my dying soul is revived
this gift you give to me, and i
love you for it

lily

i don't know your name, really
we passed in harvard yard this morning
as i was on my way to work, to write

i don't think you even looked up

a picture of you

i once made a picture
of you, a photograph finely
crafted in black and white,
hand printed with care
dipped in scent
and tinted by hand
in places
to give it some warmth

like the warmth you
sometimes gave to me
in places

framed and in my special spot
it reminded me of your curves
and colors and smells
when I was away and could not be with you
for a short while

but when you deceived me
in a cruel way,
with a vile sort of man, the
picture came down

from my special spot, and
through a shredder, and into a fire
smoke rising a more
fitting
sight and smell
to remember you by...

but if my memory should ever depart, or you return
i still have the negative

productivity

there's not much
difference between
a good day and a bad one

on a good
day, i might write
four poems

on a bad
day
none

in a bad week, month,
or year, i might not
write a single one

in a bad decade
maybe one... or none

today was a pretty good day

baghdad memories

the last time i was in
town; it is hot and i
need to shit a lot

due to a bad turkish kebab
some days earlier,
before the southward crossing

border guards with bad teeth
and attitudes, rifle butts, and body odor
but they don't know we're jews

oil trucks cross the
dirty desert, black flies stick to food
faces, and worse

a kurdish cabbie
with his arm in a cast (from fighting iranians)
loves americans. we are number one

the ancient city is
forgotten. everything is new
and gleaming, and grimy

the hotel in town is cheap, nice
and the shit hole, welcoming
the ceramic foot rests clean and shiny

i remember eggs for breakfast
in an outdoor cafe on the street
pleasant people smoking waterpipes

a bookstore owner inquires
in an opaque manner, what i feel
about the satanic verses

and the fatweh, both of which
are new at this time
i am likewise opaque

it is not so memorable
except for the pleasant people
and the not so pleasant

in the shops and street
the corners and crossings, i suppose
they're mostly dead now, or wish i was

penis bone

dogs don't need viagra
even old ones
like most carnivores, they have a
penis bone

time is falling faster every day
though physicists would disagree
we blink and we're again older
the progression seems geometric

desire does not ebb, however
blood rushes to the extremities
i hope this feeling will last forever
the young things will always please me

but i'm glad i don't have a penis bone
(though sometimes it feels as if i did)
it's no cure for old age, to be sure
what with arthritis and osteoporosis

and with time has come the little ones
with whom i have shared
your succulent breasts
i don't mind, though
i envy them your milk

now i'm no carnivore, even though
carnal thoughts often overwhelm me
i enjoy the sweet and savory taste
of your tender kosher meat when i can get it

i hope the shop never goes out of business

no dog is loyal to any other
a new love every day, be it dog
or human leg, or even the neighbor's rabbit

but a good dog knows its master anyway, and
will never stray very far away

now there's a bone for you to chew on

sonnet 2: night sweats

how can you know that this ill feeling hurts;
chills of fever, the hot stuffy blanket
of winter? you in your cotton nightshirt,
and panties from victoria's secret.
one of them lies near my pillow, and smells
of you. like you it stays still and does not
speak because it can do nothing but yell
fragrant curses like spring before the rot,
a spring that will not come this year; it will
pass as you lie panting at night, and sweat
with the summer will descend hot and still
and drip sweetly from your sweet absent breasts.
it will likely be hot this sultry year,
no sweet night nectar for me to drink here.