ARS POETICA
Herbert, my friend, I hear you've taken out the fiddle
again.
What can I say?
I once knew a man who shaved his head and went to live
with Cajuns
because they fiddle in bogs.
I fiddle also,
with myself.
My fantasies hang like Spanish moss
outside my window and are always in my light.
My dreams swim like alligators
around my home,
reptile minds
diencephalons
of merciless clarity.
I look out my doorway
squared against the impeccable mitre of
'things-as-they-are'
and am moved to say,
"I lie."
I do.
I fondle my prick
and slobber over the lady in my mind
bending to my anger and my need,
wringing her hands,
salt air whipping her thighs.
I tell her:
"Take me!
Make an honest man of me!"
I look for her everywhere.
In bars. In banks.
And everything I think is cheap,
is worthless
without her, if she isn't there, with her naked eyes.
—Paul Pines
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From: SONGS FROM THE PAGE OF SWORDS