Don’t.
Really, just… Don’t.
The kinds of questions you ask
are not the kind
you really want answers to.
The answers may surprise you
and generate reactions far too true.

The poems you think are about you
are not.
The devotions you presume
are yours
belong to others:
your betters
superior
in most every way.

I told you:
if you ask,
I will answer.
Ours was a working biosphere
until you revoked
our own personal
“Don’t ask, don’t tell.”

I think there has been
between us
one of those film-famed
failures to communicate.

When you told me
you were looking for a change
in your love-life
and I encouraged you
to take a chance
and experience new
exotic opportunities,
I did not think
we were talking about
you dating only surgeons.

Maybe I let my wandering heart
get too far ahead of me.
When we were talking loud slash saying nothing
last Wednesday,
I assumed you understood the gist
of my advice
since I’d sent you that poem
entitled “Date a Poet, Jenny.”
Perhaps you thought I spoke in metaphor.

I did not.
And you should not
date surgeons only.
In fact, Jenny,
to avoid any further confusions,
let me say:
You should certainly cease
all others of the artistic ilk,
but poets
should remain on your radar
or, at least,
one should.

All I see
as I travel these empty streets
is lovely lady
after lusty lass.

All that appears before me
is beauty
all untenably attractive girls
all way out of my weight class.
Every gal I see
is beyond me.

And I try,
- oh my god do I try -
I try all the time
to find a solution;
a way -
some kind of way – to overcome
my own evolution.

But nothing so far:
I have the same shape
and face and personality
that nature gave me
which, so far,
has kept the kajillion of girls
wandering this city
- like a pestilence of pretty -
at some substantial distance
from me.

All I see,
everywhere I go
is women I would love to know.
Still, they always say “No.”

This may very likely be
the most beautiful elevator
I have ever seen.
Well, not the elevator
per se
(whatever that actually means)
but the congregants therein.

The five women
and two men
standing here
going up with me
are lovely
intense and epic
representations of the human form
and face
- me excluded.

I just want to kiss them all
but
that seems somehow
inappropriate.
The mores of this land
would not allow it.

Wouldn’t each lady feel less special
after I lavished my attention
on the next?

And the men may feel less secure
about their sexuality than I
(which is not very).

Much as I want to adore
these gorgeous gentlemen
and luscious ladies
I will have to keep my appreciation
in my pants
so to speak
(whatever that actually means).

Still:
va-VOOM!

“You can be anything
you want to be,”
the robin told the skunk,
“If you try hard enough,
with enough enthusiasm,
you can become what you want.”
The skunk was impressed
and acted on avian advice.

He tried his hand at scriptwriting
but found the money men
wouldn’t offer him the budgets his productions needed
so he went into short stories
and then limericks.
He went through his nest egg
pretty quickly.

After that
he opted to enter the aromatherapy field
with his own unique scent
he thought he’d be a lock
as a consultant
but the big centers wouldn’t let
the little skunk through the door
and he wasn’t comfortable
with starting his own practice.

Times were getting tight for Lil’ Skunkie
who was getting anxious over impending winter
with a Con Ed that was promising record rate hikes.
He wondered if there was any future
in bird watching,
and opted to try his paw at it.
It paid about what you’d expect.

One day, he ran into the robin,
rocking back and forth on a branch.
“I’ve taken your advice to heart,” said the skunk.
“Well? How’d it go? Have you become
everything you’ve ever wanted?”
“Not yet, but I expect to do well
in my next venture.”
“Great. What’re you up to?”
“I’ve entered the feather business,”
the skunk said,
a particular look in his eye,
“I expect to make a killing.”

You have GOT to give me a break.
It can’t be as important
as you make it out.
So maybe I did do
what you think I did.
Possibly
I am guilty
as much as I am accused.

But you’re not perfect either.
After all,
one of those
is not your real hair color.
Maybe both.

For months, you told me
“everything’s fine,”
whenever I asked
when, quite obviously,
something’s been wrong
or you wouldn’t be all be all
out of shape tonight.
So sometimes,
You lie.

I forgive you al your faults
- may even love you
because of them -
and I forgive your trespasses
and, while I can’t expect you
to be as compassionate as I,
can’t you at least try?

It has come to my attention
that people are assholes.
Not all people,
of course,
just the people
who live in New York
and take public transportation.

Why is it
that people
out in society
don’t know how to act?
People crowding into cars
before others get out!
Idiots eating their messy smelly foreign meals
right next to me,
not even offering a taste!
And girls
- gels upon girls upon girls -
in tastelessly tight skirts
and perfectly loose morals
refusing to sit on my lap
or leave the train with me!

Where is the respect?
Where is the consideration?
Where is it that the public
will do whatever I want
whenever I want it?

Something’s gotta be done
to the people on the trains.
I’m thinking razor blades on the doors
and gas in the vents.
Who’s with me?

When you called me up
asked me over,
served me my favorite wine
(which is Scotch),
and offered me
a new chance into your pants,
the way I responded
may not have been entirely honest.

I told we’d already had
our perfect moment
the last time
before the arguments became excessive
and out differences proved wider
than out love could cross.

I referred to the time on the bridge
in the snow,
where we warmly held each other
in the chill of that reflective afternoon
and how anything we could attain
after that glorious instant
would be pale,
redundant.

And you agreed,
and we hugged again
and I thanked you
for the lovely offer
and you thanked me
for the lovely words
and I thanked you
for the hand job
and the trip down mammary lane.

But as I said before,
the truths I spoke
were not complete.
They were true enough,
and we could never regain
what we’d shared back then
in our yesteryouth,
but mostly because
of how fat you got.

I didn’t know.
I didn’t realize.
I was unaware
that Hall & Oates Had written
the hit before me.

I didn’t know.
I thought that I was the first
to envision such ideas
and attempt to enact them
in melody and rhyme.
I thought I was original
and not a common thief.

I didn’t know.
I was unaware
I failed to research
to do – or assign -
the appropriate due diligence
to recognize
their canon
and what had been composed.

I didn’t know.
I believed that I was the first
to create music
behind the idea of detectives on surveillance.
I hadn’t considered
the possibility
that sharks might have already been recorded
in popular song.

I didn’t know.
I had not imagined
the scope of messieurs Hall and Oates’ historic creativity
of the vengefulness
of their litigators.

I didn’t know
and now
I’m out of luck
and out of time.

It seems that the Delete key
on my device is getting bigger
and easier
to accidentally select.
Whenever I an about to save
the great work
that has been bubbling within
for however long it’s been
my clumsy fingers find Delete
and ruin it
- ruin everything.

Sometimes it’s a story.
Sometimes it’s a poem.
Sometimes it’s a sentence
from an email
that says precisely
what it should.
Whatever it is,
I blink
and plink a certain key
and then it’s gone.

I wonder who is behind
this advanced
and insidious functionality
that curses me.
What evil Operating System
or keyboard manufacturer
has made it so effortless
to destroy
what I had so creatively cultivated.

I hope
that my second drafts
are better than my first
so at least
there is purpose
behind this torture.