by J. Camp Brown
Put up the bar-drenched mandolin,
she says. It reeks of booze, a struck chord
coughs smoke, and I’m tired of comments from strangers
about your desirous finger dexterity.
So, useless, hung on the wall, it dries, and while
I wait, I wander into a classroom with fluorescent dimming lights
enter in medias res, saying: And lo!
I swallert a lit cigarette and took not ill,
combusted neither. Praise him! All God’s people say (Amen).
Are you saved
your place? Then take out Foucault
and prurient, write, real hard, perineum as the tenor
of a simile involving the smoothness
of the petals of a flower. One writes, then raises
her hand: My perennial smells dizzying like tobacco leaves
curing in the barn. You, I say, discourse naughty,
darlin’, but your usage eros is striking. Say,
how barely legal is you, anyway? Anyway, cut back on sprawl.
Trim the bushes and your subject
really does look bigger. After class, I’m the little
phallic shape thrust into the yonic sky that knows:—there is no cure.