I love the way you know someday you'll carry
pussy willows through the gay Middle Ages
bound and gagged.
I thought (with this distance) you gave me
the finger, but now I see you were
only holding a french fry weirdly.
I made you a t-shirt of the Pillsbury doughboy
wearing rainbow pride skivvies.
I trust you will wear this in numerous straight bars.
I made you a Lil Wayne/Patrick Wolf mix c.d.
I have this rubber doll of you (lifesize)
I chase around the backyard when the moon floods and stalls.
My ringtone for you on my cell phone?
Crazy Frog singing, "there's a masturbator on my phooooone..."
Do I love you? Of course!
But I love the raven of Charles Dickens, any soup
arriviste enough to call itself bisque and peachblow.
You are a chameleon. That much is certain.
But I can't say with any certainty of what you are a chameleon.
School cafs? Cyber-masques? Imaginary argy-bargys?
I don't know what the plural of argy-bargy really is.
I just bluffed.
Are we in cahoots?
Sometimes I feel that way when I am hunting elk
in my pajamas and suddenly notice you crouched by my side, doing sudoku.
What were elk doing in my pajamas?
What were you? We learn by watching Neve Campbell
in The Craft that "everything in nature steals."
The dead sharks wash up on the beach
at regular intervals, found at dawn. A "love gift."
Nancy has a penis. There's nothing wrong with her. Or us.