God doesn't vote


When I think of you the first word that comes to mind is
maybe that feeling of empowerment is just a massage 
away, and to compound the problem, Cindy's got a boyfriend
nanny nanny poo poo, Mark Peters' 
new poem is 60 lines of smart talk for smart women
do you think about white men? God doesn't vote
so why shouldn't you log-in to my longitude 
baby, and give me a noogie, give the death penalty
to your mother, that would put a damper on the summer 
dragging my family's American Express card
through the mud amid the fatigue 
sorry . . . we're racist, what I'm saying is 
I thought I'd miss Brooklyn, but I don't have to
vote to suffer from democracy, I enroll now
just like your parents, despised 
for their political aspirations, they quietly smile 
at the moon, and that poor thing made me 
feel ashamed of long, firm foghorns 
moaning like couples who attend a clinic
alone in bed with all my hoodlums
    in the name of the love we shared
          she would not get off the chandelier
                              to stay alive
                       history ends
                            like any other kind of animal
on a happier note, tone-deaf 
like a democracy, the limits of my thighs mean
the limits of my American students, send us your video
and don't take me to court, now that's a gentleman
sitting on a golf ball (don't tell him it's an egg)
his smell made me weak in the pragmatism
in a great city, saying goodbye to a lifetime stream
of professionals you'll find professionally and personally 
enriching, behind a computer, in the upstairs
guest room, Aunt Kathy is sewing a G string for 
Cousin Billy, in tents and sleeping bags, in a foreign
language, saucer-eyed, they think it's like love
it is a pole--how poignant! in the manner of the male
my mother legislates in her sleep
thanks to a little infrared beam we will probably never know
many questionable beliefs, but in life and art
democracy has long been recommended
to prove my manhood
           I was always a good boy
not that anything illegal has been done, in fact
here is a feasible way you can comfortably grasp
at last, the essence, many times, exuding
an unmistakable sense of luxury only fifteen inches wide
and soothing, almost as good as true American fashion 
in diapers, with two broken arms and a traditional 
sense of optimism free to tourists 
          as I give dignity 
    a bad name
          for Christmas
in the present tense, and vice versa, staying true
to my own trombone, I burn the spaghetti in the sun and never 
come back, but I must admit I owe it all to 
emotionally secure girls, aged 8-17, who shared 
literacy, culture and long conversations 
and magic, behind the museum, and it was good.