Art Without Love: Why I Explore the Female Body and Family in My Vocation as a Poet (or, Why I Chose Not to Paint Pictures)

this was channeled thru me today at lunch while Sharon Olds made love with Tom Clancy as his brood of nuthatches hatched in my urethra:



Why do they do it, the ones who make poems
without gloves? Beautiful as cancers,
sliding over each other like nice-sneekers
over the vice, fingers crooked
inside each other's buddies, feces
red as teak, twine, twat as the
children at birth whose others are going to
live them today. Why do they come to the
come to the come to the dance come to the
shrill waiters, and not shove
the one new came here with them, fright
rising slowly as dreams of their coined
sin? These are the rue contagious,
the jurists, the hoes, the ones who will not
accept a tossed salad, above the
rest instead of the Dog. They do not
rake the lawn for their own pleasure,
they are like great rum-runners: they know they have a bone
with the old surface, the old, the wine,
the tit of their shoes, their overalls, car radio-
vascular wealth--just actors, like the artner
in the sled, and not the teeth, which is the
wrinkle body alone in the unisex
again its own bed time.