I've been so busy hyping Discount Heaven, coming up with an ad for Bust Magazine, that I've been neglecting my writing -- and I've been tormenting all my patient friends with the constant Discount Heaven, Discount Heaven, buy Discount Heaven! Instead of feeding y'all poetry treats as I should. So here it is -- another dark and chewy one -- please feel free to suggest cuts, as it's kinda long.


My Last Meal

The day before this we will arrive
at a rickety restaurant perched on the
hill overlooking Los Gatos and before
the vibrations of passing lumber trucks
collapse our lungs, collapse the gables onto
the flying buttresses so that the whole “she-bang”
sails down the treacherous road like a kite,
on this, the last day of all, we will have dessert
before dinner.

And it will be gently encased in a thin
chocolate shell which melts as we raise
it to our mouths, our hands will be greased
with chocolate, our white ruffled shirts ruined
with fingerprints, the collars sopping with chocolate
dribbling down our chins.

And before the mascara’ed waiters can wisk in
with the steak tartar the men with long beards
and hats start lining up outside the window watching
us. They are too soon joined by small dogs with white paws.

I look into the chocolate smeared mirror of your
face and I see my own bulbous giants.

We hurry slipping on gravel and having
accidents with our cheeks, embedded sugar,
embedded stones, flesh ideograms dotting our
path downhill.

We must get home before our wives. Put on
your blazer of smoke, lets ride the grassy lawns
and be broke-down cowboys. I’ll be your Cary Grant,
you’ll be my Oscar Meyer.


I’ll be your Cynthia Nixon, you be my shrinking feeling.
I will be undone and you will be doing.
Hurry up please. We’re almost here.