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

Battleground
where fathers and sons

have fought and lost,
foreign country

of hidden wealth, clay
hardened by sad flame,

at once you have been
discovered.

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
key banging
at an empty page

demanding loyalties
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

waiting
for the whistle-hour
that comes when someone else
decides

my poems will not be
cheap circus dogs
hooping through fire
for small applause

or concubines
slaving
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.