don’t be gender-strung
brother, grinding in a corner
sexless repetitions.

go limp a little.
let be won a little.
let the sun a little soften
your margarine edges.

the men i know
resemble a differently-
tipped tree than you.

my men are fundamentals, lost
in parched landscapes, empty
of water, warmth, and mercy,
from where, i teach them love.

lusty giants bristle-trunked
and planet-stranded, are nipple-
slit and magma-branded
by fully-armored Mars.

but cold palms trembling
twiddle the ephemeral course
with your recurrent inkling.

you, pocketed by four-
fingered mercenaries, twenty-
four, seven, re-puppet the gifted goose.

smoke the flat potion.
blowhard the hollow motion.
worship the literal juice.

shout, as if spilled clout
were potency, your wee-
throated catharsis.

strong-arm, for and from
the haptic trill,
a lover’s pity.

you, lordly and viral, left your
deflated blubber on
the public bedside table,

honey— your woodless worms
exhausted into empty domain
of static, remorseless maw.

and tender pussycat,
she swat. then low-key, she
your factum, deposited

into her rainy-day, furry-frosted
milkmaid, snappy the snatch-
game crocodile account.

//