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.

Taking The Cake

cake

Remember all those times the girls went
go go go
Remember the Ford Mustangs,
Chevy Blazers and Ford Escorts
The girls went
The girls went
Where did the girls go
Fast food by the mall
To the secret panty store
Parties before midnight
in the working class neighborhoods
far away from the golf course
They never went to the Basketball games
cuz of
all the black kids
Friday nights in Fall were more their thing
Then that summer the football player
killed his father
The girls didn’t know where to go to
send their condolences
To
take the cake