I seem to recall someone spinning white plates
down a long wall; maybe it was in the courthouse
maybe it was in the crazy house,
maybe it was in some suburban kitchen,
or in some exotic clime
where we were proud to stay alive
by killing with non-designer clubs
or good ole bowie knives
or with just our bare hands and
then bringing the booty home
and taking it by the hair
right then and there
or maybe
she was having some affair,
maybe it was that last AA meeting
or the one where he dreamed of fucking
the Marriage counselor, a threesome
on the couch, while Freud and her
divorce lawyer discussed accounting,
or maybe
it was that Men's Empowerment meeting
where every one beat off together
and awarded prizes to the Great Odysseus
who could hit the farthest target
or maybe
it was at that other meeting
where we got in touch with our femininity
and tried to wring new tears by singing
old campfire songs
and rubbing our hands together
or perhaps it was the simple realization
that doing the dishes
was all she needed him for.



�2006 by Ray Sweatman

We've been stuck together so long
The neighborhood dogs
in appreciation Ooh and ah.
The Doberman is on the phone
dialing the Guinness Book of Records.
Oh. Oh.
Ah.
The bees are howling, swirling, humping the air
Like god's black eyeballs knocking together
The birds remain unimpressed
At the cats who would rip their songs out
Now that the world is returning
In all its bestial innocence,
I guess we'll all be drenched in yellow.



�2006 by Ray Sweatman