Rocka My Soul In The Bosom Of Abraham

What did Abraham do?

He did what all other fathers
since him are striving to do.

Abraham just bought a color TV.

The color TV looks right
with the tones of the air in Brooklyn.

Abraham likes to walk about.

He likes the city at twilight.
The orangeness, those ancient
kinds of
things.

Now Abraham has been watching his TV.

So Abraham goes home to his wife
and her Salisbury dinners
and the cool truths of the evening
news,
but then Abraham has a previous wife
he loves more too.

He imagines her ghost will trail him
through
to his last breaths.

Their son has gone off to college
by the good hills and woods and
fresh air
of rural Pennsylvania.

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Handjob Tyrants Of Hollywood

She will not be perfect.
Her skin will fall and flop.
She talks and talks
and I of course make the mistake
of judging her value by
the changing of her physicality
while granting myself privileges
of mind, lintellect, and earnings.
My breath stales to phlegm
and stinks its sad mature mucosal
isolation of men.
I become known as

the handjob tyrant

and look towards other women,
but as I grow old and my hardons
no longer work
do I have the courage to love her
as she turns into something
beyond time,
eternal, beyond stupid words?
Something my mother told me
as a toddler,

listen to that feeling inside your head

and maybe I’ll still be afraid of.
This poem was not written for the
fashionable young people or the
vainfully rich and egotists
rushing in and out of the stores and
clinics of the City.
This poem was written for the leaves,
grass, and particles
still vassals to the wind,
not the human negrotude
put in place by the ancient Court
of Ine, ingrained in your movies and
television.

As The Men Shall Love

Such passionate men are these

The ones in the fields in Turkey

Who have left their concrete buildings

Taken their radios to dance on a

dirt road

close to brushy woods together

Only as men all along should have
loved
each other

and made the world a little softer
with joy and expression

Robots Driving By The Oligarchy

I can’t sleep when you’re on vacation.

My hands are small, smaller than they’ve
ever been.

The kittens were born ten years ago behind
a modest wooden house in Fort Worth.

The cats will die someday. I’ll cry like a
baby then.

I personally think the bacteria in your stomach
and anus are what’s ruined you, you know

soured you as a person,

in the midst of this lactic war.

Biologists think the big red spot on Jupiter
is fueled by lactic acid,

the lactic acid, that is, in its upper atmosphere.

I thought for a moment;
kind of like your robot stomach.

You do
love a lot like robots driving by the White House,

reporting on domestic spying initiatives
and
tossing Molotov cocktails.

Your sheets are folded perfectly.
Your bed is made quiet nicely.

These are not codes, Shipley Shipwin. They are
not codes.