My Fleshy Buddha

The Spanish guitar
Is pleading for
A touch
Some flesh to hold on to

Dripping with
Wine passion
And six strings
My lover called
Me a balloon
A fancy rubber
Cain and Able
In the basement
On the very last floor

With this morning bud
This early dew
Under the window
I am gathering gray hairs
And stringy wrinkles
That road map my face
To the next exit
The place you desire
To go

Buddha lifts a cigarette to
His holy lips and
Inhales so very slowly
With great care
And caution
His followers kneel down
With matches in their mitts
And swallow the mercy of their
Good humor man

But all this
Floats past my feast
My ears      My face
My oh so indulgent dinner
Of pork

Pork and some get out of here
Veal cutlets, breaded and hairy
On the china

Forks on my shins
Shucking corn for the hell of it
Down at the local castle
That hangs by wires and blue smoke
I am an invited guest
I have the ticket of blue as total proof

I paid not a dollar to attend this
Lovely celebration
Not a red cent
Not a buffalo nickel or dead face Lincoln fiver

And now
As the Spanish guitar
Jumps neck first into the brick fireplace
The ladies sit around complaining of poor sex
Of centimeters and inches...Seven here...3 there
The lips stick cries down their chins
As the semen grinds its way down the tubes
And the men...the man...wipe up afterwards
With plain white tissues and brassier cloth

I offer my oh so helpful hand
And am rejected and let down easily
I whistle and skip out of the square room
And head off to the
Stiff middle finger tress in the velvet forest
This solitude will not last
This time alone will crash and burn
Car wreck style on the six o’clock news

And we will all watch with open jaws
 erect nipples and we will all go down
Go down famously, just watch us now
We are coming to get you