I love them mostly
with pencil instead of pen,
I just can’t stand
their serrations, futile grins.
Perhaps I say Instill
above your shoulder’s peak;
my hands make way for
love underneath.

The first I called was
a guitar’s pricking pang-
lived in Illinois,
thought I was yet a man.
Easily mistaken-
my tongue had been tied in nylon
sheets and wire.

Second one knew me well,
but I’m not sure she was real.
Altogether ephemeral and
crazy, adding to disdain.
She was something like a glued face
pulling teeth for more morphine
I know though,
that afterwards I was

singing lovely hymns
to girls and playing pretend,
desiring domains in newer days.
I remember the next two more;
they didn’t prefer pencil to pen.
(they were artists, even then.)

Two years said each
after a lifetime considered cheap-
That is, disorderly,
late-night drunk parties.
I packed up my unintentional leave-
think I’ll head for the beach.

With hate and disgust,
(all those glued pretty little doves)
mostly for myself, I considered just
to sit and stare above
and call this homely pond a rarity
Perhaps this was just the place for me.

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