I will not take the poet Unspeakable’s name in vain,
her erogenous zones are holy places,
blessed are those who have prayed there.
Some speak in tongues with the taste of her clitoris
on every word, the starlight of her anus.
Her poetry is informed by the sunrise and sunset
of her vagina visited by supplicants and pilgrims.
Blessed is her sacred vulva.
The world will long remember the joys
and sorrows of her deflowering.
There was the great schism, wars fought
over the religion of her nipples—
were they Catholic, Calvinist, or pagan?
One must consider a while her mouth.
Whatever ways the winds blow,
the waves always reach shore.
Blessings on Unspeakable, the teacher.
I throw her a kiss wherever she wants it—
if she wants it not, it is
because she is much better occupied.
She knows about loneliness.
So I send her this bouquet of corrupt flowers
to show my gratitude for her poetry and life.
I confess at a Japanese tea ceremony
my misfortune: I never saw her naked.
Naked we were both banished from gardens to dumps,
stinking fires in San Francisco and Queens.
In good time, she considers the penis—it flowers
but it's often a weed in the garden of delights.
Every penis is political.
Many a freeman has a penis that’s a slave
or indentured servant. Some penises don’t vote,
others live in old Chicago, vote a few times,
although love is not an election,
still love chooses its representatives,
a congress, a parliament, consistory.
Love is a democratic party, a kingdom,
a dictatorship. A pest, I believe Jesus lived,
I will not grant that at 30 He was a Virgin.
Why don’t the gospels record that He made love
to a lass or lad—He created man in His image and likeness.
Turning the other cheek has several virtues—
men and women turn over, backside up.
I’ve gone off her highway to a byway:
I believe Unspeakable’s behind
is never cruel, it is only kind.
There is knowledge you can find in an apple tree
or simply opening your arms to a lover
to whom you are faithful.
In death, we are not all of one body and mind.
Unspeakable, I refuse to be an earthworm
the dragon Saint George kills.
My last words: “Thank you.”
Listening for “You're welcome”
is not a bad way to go.