YOU ARE PAUL NEWMAN

I be yr horse
to whip & to
hold, not corpse,
not busted ankle
bone, & down
my throat you
can plug every
dime every
quarter, so I be
yr parking meter
& you be my
pipe cutting tool.

__

bite my face
& I be yr dove
for all time.

__

YOU ARE SAXOPHONE

is not yr soul
a tiny jukebox,
a pain in yr heart
sprung from the
blues, & which,
when I cup my
hand to yr chest,
be like thunder-
ous rain, like
wasps in a coffee
can, & thou
nettles & dry river-
bed, thou sermon
of fire, sister, & 
we hymnal of
matchsticks.

__

These are not poems, these are essays. And they may or may not be about Zooey Deschanel. I’m not sure. But at least there are no curse words.