Christmas Bloody Christmas

finger queen
sounds enough like
fingering
the noose tightens
around her throat
and an orgasm bangs against
the universe’s outer walls
hmmm…
how was that, babe?
a potter knows pottery
and tea. some cocktails
make themselves before
the garnish even begins to
get questioned, sorta like
“fast wars” and premature
ejaculations of media versions
but I’m not a political poet
in any way shape or form. Female
form, then. Two breasts and
a machine gun fire blasts through
sexual moans in Cambodia, a
taste of sea creatures, the measure
of salt and constant coverings:
panties, undies, kelp, or other
seaweeds - today I’m reading and
the writing is the same
sort of Beckman
only without all his
“fucks” and “tennis socks” or
“white tennis socks” or whatever
I don’t really need to quote him
for the whole poem, do I?
Her chest, then. Sex best bent
over something, don’t care what
but her head banging something too,
her hair in a fist and drilling like
Alaskan oil fields from behind - that is
not a
metaphor. A blue, red, and white
flag covers a pile of half-burned bodies while
you open up each one of your Christmas
presents.
Or are you Jewish? Fucking happy
holidays. Did you receive money or a money shot
in the head this year? If violence weren’t
so easy, then she wouldn’t be pregnant would
she? I’d really like to stay out of
this poem but now it’s too late, let’s
send more troops (poets)!
Blah-betty blah-betty blah ha ha -
The bonanza returns to it’s origin of
man: finger-queen, goddess of the
morning’s coffee and blue pajamas or
maybe my parents have just entered this
holiday poem through the living
room door
exploding mortar
I lay dripping cold blood
between her legs.
(what a copout)

12/24/06
Christmas Eve
10:43am