todayís poem

Leftoverís from tonightís meal
fit away as snugly as my dayís
dialogues fit into a theme, as sn-
ugly as this prose goes in stanzas ar-

bitrarily spilling over the edge of
the Tupperware container, the
confines of the conversation at
hand (that I extend needlessly in

order to finish my self-indulgent
psychoanalysis) and these chunks
of page -- four lines of ink then a
lineís reprieve to think.

Took a little liberty there as I did
working on seconds of kosheri, a-
nd ice cream and hot fudge. I tal-
ked about a lot of things tonight, b-

ut mostly I thought of women and
how much I liked them, and how I
wish my body would just give it a
fucking rest. That was the aforemen-

tioned theme. It always wants more
and I get involved despite my disinter-
rest because I can or because I need
to see if I can. I guess there are as

many things for a man to prove as
there are grains of rice and lentils
in this hodgepodge peasant dish, kos-
hri, as there is passagework in this p-

oem of three themes, related, but c-
Ďmon, get to the point. So, I have p-
roven I can fill a page with text. I-
Ďve proven I can get into a pair of p-

ants and that I can eat until I canít
get into my own. I want less hungry.
I want less horny. I want less ambi-
tious to show off my vocabulary. C-

an I sip now, reticent? I could have
tasted more of my meal today. I cou-
ld have listened more than I spoke. I
could restrain myself now. Remem-

ber how little there was, boy. Nothin-
g in the ore. Fuck! Even now, after
the climax. Iíve got to go ahead and
start a whole new metaphor. Thatís me. Liberty with liberty leaving little left to savor of the savory.