"Saturday"

Of all the things to do or to have done
The simplest is sitting in the sun
To smoke and praise and criticize and drink
To be alone in company to think

I lost my past facility with speech
Without appearing much to really care
But to the darkest recesses do reach
The blackened brainstem's tuneless air
I thought of Friday, coming as it does
To full-stop every week; one disentombs
Expectancy a mercy and a buzz
A hanging picture in a spartan room.

The thoughts that coalesce in daylight haze
The morning of experience's day
The stainless steel surface of the plate
The tackiness and chat of a cafe
--Ongoing for a month of Saturdays.

IF I WAS GOING to pick a shape to be
From nature, to participate in fun,
I'd choose an hourglass femme, two flattish tits
Whose daybook read "- Check email - Yoga - Run"
A willingness to lead on and be led
A thoughtlessness disguised as joie-de-vivre
I'd chat and drink to satiation, leave
And start to dance when others threw their fits.

My laptop had a sticker reading "CASH".
My oldest clothes had holes from smokers' ash.
My irises were Pantone sapphire-white.
My hair worn down. I batted left and threw right.

My browser came from Linux open-source
My homepage linked to camelsmokes.com
The purple fetus boozing in my womb
Would never know a smiling human mom

LAST NIGHT I DREAMED a girl with supple thighs
Approaching me at dawn across the sheets
We entertwined and traded off our sighs
And in the morning found adjacent subway seats

Whatever is begotten, born and dies
Or looks around for somewhere to throw up
Will end up indexed online in an archive
To be thought of, like we think on dial-up.