Napkin Poem 1

Still trying to come up with a
word to describe the way lips
feel gently pressing on skin,
slightly sticking and not quite wet.
But I worry that looking too hard
will make me want to ostracize
the possibilities, like the time I
banished the word "door" for being
inadequate and no longer
understood what people meant
by it. Also I couldn't open
rooms or houses any more. I
miss that - it's inconvenient but
lots of fun to hacksaw
holes in ceilings, or floors. I
had mercy on the poor word
finally, when I couldn't get inside
my car to drive as far away
from trying to figure out a kiss
as I could.


Napkin Poem 4

And when she drinks the bad December blood,
you must remember that you cannot hold
her cup, or flood her bold eyes' passionate
and loving stare with murky hate, abrupt
and bare beneath the skies, in case she thinks
compassion is a myth, a legendary wreath
of gold, formed by an ancient smith.

It must be clear to her that even though
she's cut you, no authority is yours to pass
the judgment or confer the fear, but
just to stick your finger in the flow of
tears, for you are guilty too, and for you,
it would be wretched to deprive someone
who stumbled of the love that leaps alive
in the furnace and the ancient smithy's flames.

Napkin Poem 2

Let's take an already
clean-shaven fella and cover
his face with shaving cream.
Let him glide a bladeless razor
down his motherfucking perfect face
and we'll claim clean-cut precision.
In the name of the sponsor,
the channels, and the holy dollar,