Simon and Julie Love Leather Leggings
The way they snug the skin
and shine when wet. The sound
they make when you peel them
off from a night of sweat. Leather legs
on leather furniture, leather legs rubbed
together. Leather with silver
zippers, big as sharkjaws, black
as absence. Simon and Julie wear
their leather every Saturday night, slip
their skinny fingers in each other’s
whipstitched pockets. Do not take
them off ‘til Sunday morning.
“Simon and Julie love leather leggings” was the title of a spam email I once received. I actually like this one, and I thought it was a good match for Deb Morbeto’s freaky vision.
Ode To My Body
where fathers and sons
have fought and lost,
of hidden wealth, clay
hardened by sad flame,
at once you have been
Unearthed at last:
strange hungers that crawl
in your belly. Sweet voices
that sing in your soul.
This poem is really OLD. But, I still wanted to see if it could be given new life. I thought it was rather sappy and sentimental, but of course Deb Morbeto saw through all of that and found the humor in it. I love that.
Why I Hate to Submit
the way they make me save it
while they whore
around, dipping their fingers
in the inkwells of everyone
dangling the bait for me
to snap at like a typewriter
at an empty page
they do not return
making me shake
my metaphors in their face
without so much
as a dollar to wave
in my direction
enough of my life already
held hostage and I
will no longer treat my poetry
like a punchcard
to be signed
for the whistle-hour
that comes when someone else
my poems will not be
cheap circus dogs
hooping through fire
for small applause
for some sultan’s harem
my poems will be
great clots of blood
I throb against the wall
the naked breasts
of nursemaids or the body
freely given to desire
I love what Deb Morbeto did with this one – I think a lot of people who submit their work for publication can relate, especially to Godzilla.
Video by Deb Morbeto
i am not a taco. i don’t smile. i do not belong to you. i’m more of a bean burrito, flopped on a plate like a wet dachshund, fleshy and warm. tacos smile. little shell-smiles, nestled in aisles like babies in incubators, crispy corn-mouths gaping to be stuffed. tacos are easy. you snap, they shatter. burritos don’t make it easy. burritos make you work, make you puncture and scoop. they have mass, like floured tumors. burritos are limp, unlovely mysteries. not like a taco, spread and saucy as a cheerleader. oh yes, the taco can be owned. but the burrito – the burrito owns you.
This one came from a message board post instructing another poster to “smile, my little taco!” It’s not much as a poem, but I liked some of the images I came up with at least, and I think Deb got the humor right.
if I were a man, I’d take
from my Muse, wrapped in her gauze
like a Christmas mummy – sweet
skinned conquest, desert whore
if I were a man, I’d write about God
with his Almighty
genitals ringing like a bell & a clap
but a woman will sing Mary
back to her sex, let her make love
in the desert, let her breath come
in short growls like gunfire, like laughter
hot from the heart
of a Muse who conjures flame,
arcing brilliant arrows
against the core of our sin
Another awesome collaboration with Deb Morbeto. When choosing poems for her to use, I tend to pick my older or weaker stuff; not because I don’t want to share my best work with her or anyone, but because I want my weaker work to be improved by a new perspective and presentation. Deb can always be counted on for both of these things.
Also, I think I stole the God’s genitals image from Sharon Olds, but I can’t be certain. It’s an old poem.
Collaboration with Deb Morbeto.
You wake up and something has changed.
Maybe your lover is cheating, or you’ve started
your period, or your country has declared war
on another country. Winter unrolls
her old bones, cracking the loam, the light sharp
and metallic, as if some cheap fluorescent god
has taken over, spotlighting the world’s
flaws, even the green gone cheap and tawdry.