Fisher Ruth
She caught bream and goggle-eye,
mudcat, hate, largemouth bass,
turtles which died by the knife,
my own human soul.
She loved some of us,
ate some of us,
watched us suffocate
on a dry pond dam
in sight of water,
let some of us go gently
into the cool, nurturant darkness.
Her hook was sharp, true,
worth the sting.
Crickets and mercurial minnows
danced mirror ball with sun, floated.
Banana moon pies, sweet lemonade,
long red worms touched
only in nightmares.
Sequin scales, deep black eyes
horrible in acceptance
of child as murderer.
Scent of blood, guts, cloudy-orange eggs,
homemade soap wouldn't scrub away
before I ate flesh for supper,
wondering if fish have souls.
I was a little boy,
arms around her dungaree waist,
she scarcely feminine with age
the day she said,
"No woman has ever been a fish.
We are corks.
When he pulls we must go
under."
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Playgirl Apollo
after the myth of Apollo and Daphne
Dear Playgirl-hunk Apollo
who could change Armani's suit
from merchandise to poetry,
let me be your Daphne.
My daddy's not a river.
If you chase me I won't run,
unless you like it that way.
Zeus cruised Ganymede for variety.
Why cover my beauty in bark and leaves?
Ah, to ride your chariot Mercedes to Delphi
or the Holiday Inn on Twenty-Third--
that might make a connoisseur of beauty
or a horny guy say
the oracle speaks truth
in centerfold.
It would not be a bad way
to spend Sunday with a god--
golden hair, lips ambrosial
with or without champagne
beat a grove of laurels all to Hades.
You turn out the light.
I'll pick up the tab.
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Storm Cloud
Just the outline
of colossal bruised face
menacing from western evening cloud
with scattered torso
of Hephaestian fire
Searing souls
in the first degree
like an inopportune scripture,
"Peek-a-boo,
I see you."
Somehow the eyes
are always there,
appearing to vanish
and reappear.
Stares burn hotter than the fire,
scars into the scars.
"Peek-a-boo,
I see you."
Do I give a damn?
Do you?
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