Hard (A Poem)

smelling of
paper flowers
I am all
jig saw pieces
scattered about in your mind
that holds me
so close
so dear
so empty
and
finally
so animal

like tulips
in a rare August
you found me
and held me in
that dear hand of yours
slicing me
up
with those nails
you keep sharpened
by scratching them against
the backs of
yellow jackets
that walk up and down
my shaft

torn up now
in a heap
with vibrant smells
lifting off of me
like high helicopters
leaving Woodstock
in the morning
summer 1969
rising into the
air
like a sunflower
in the
pollution of
America
never once stopping
to ask for direction
I just reach out
for your swelling breasts
that kick and throw tantrums
when they are told
yes

now that you have died
I can now
be born
so wipe me clean
and slather
the love onto my pink genitals
and ten little fingers
ten little toes
one massive phallus
and a nose
to stick it in
as the miniature
flags are raised
outside of expensive cabins
for lovers with newborns
keeping them hard
at
work

my star dose not shine
my karma returns the favor
while weeping willows
are just cloud straws
and looking close
you can see
Gary Snyder
sitting there
sucking his thumb
shaped like a wine bottle

this day is over
as the rain
rips apart like boxers fists
landing on the concrete
while my tulip
died a grubby dildos death
just a few moments
ago
and no one cries
as the last balloon
rises in the green sky
within the scent of all the pussies
that had the privilege of
opening for me
here
just now
flows like juicy rivers
going nowhere
again
year after year