9-17 Two witless poems

An Empty Nest?

(For Ken Wilber)

This evolution has no rest
for I or We or It;
it’s all a nest . . . in nest . . . in nest . . .
and each sifts down its grit.

Since when is height the better view
or span the viewer’s quest?
I’ll take the bottom’s residue
and blame the upper nest!

What’s at the top, the summit’s peak?
There sits an empty nest?
This is the height, the gray hairs seek—
a formless Everest?

I dissent from that Ascent
and live my life unblest.
I favor one of sheer Descent,
and nest in Spirit’s breast.


Guy picked a beastly DVD to highlight erotic ambiance.
Gal arrived perfumed and in pantyhose.
He displayed a full-blooming, yellow primrose
next to a chardonnay bouquet,
to enrich amorous effects
and retire in erogenous repose
(so, he supposed)

but failed to discern
in movies with monsters, there’s never
ever a scene with consummated sex,
only hints of what will happen next:
the damsel will tremble, the stud flex
and as their kissing scene reaches apex—
all at once the fanged beast shows
with raptor toes and eyes that glows.
Guy and Gal knows, as hero and heroine
leave the creature’s bloody corpse,
rapturous frenzy will follow their last-scene kiss…

Guy nimbly gropes to unveil Gal’s clothes
and launch an evening of lubricous bliss,
but her mood is as romantic as if
she saw photos of herpes simplex.
At his touch, she froze, grabs her keys
with a hiss and slams his front door.

Guy wallows into a drunken abyss
and concludes erotica is not accentuated

with chase scenes by a Tyrannosaurus Rex.

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