The story so far:
UNTITLED, 022908AWOL in the dark hall, an olive chartreuse
My lighthouse mistress's fishnetted song
Gripping the brass rail, sweat-waxen and wet
Paid for the night but she don't keep me long.
Sex and a smoke, candles burn down
My soft crimson nothing a lustful braindead
Once more for the road, then strangers again
My unnatural blonde, sweet guilty and wrong.
Not like your aunt, all trussed in silk rags
Named Cheyenne Bianca, at home three floors up.
With torn wads of cash in a naugahyde pouch,
Mustachioed pushers two doors down the hall.
Sweet guilty and wrong, sweet guilty and wrong!
I'm numb in your home with hashish and rum.
Your bible-belt pet, your marionette.
I'm haunted by this, by your fishnetted song.
SONNET OF THE OFFICE CLERK, 091807
Blue fuzz does grip the grub of lunches past
Whose masters shrug and claim naiveté.
Though precedent renders this process fast,
An hour I'll spend come five o'clock Friday.
Do they who balk at food so cast away
Upon their sacks place monograms composed?
No, they ignore this plea I oft convey
And thusly find their leftovers disposed.
Am I so stern, so normally hardnosed?
In none but this pursuit of our hygiene.
S'ironic that this case is never closed,
But I insist- three fridges must be clean!
At this week's end these boxes will be hollow;
Take care for merely one email will follow.