Thank You 


Thank you for bringing me to the brink,
letting me gaze at the dazzle,
then shoving me and my enthralled eyes over the edge.

Thank you for the great kindness 
and for the demonstration of emotional judo
whereby you turned great kindness
to greater cruelty.

Thank you for making me believe 
that now would never happen.

Thank you I say,
but by “thank”
you know I mean some other word
I trust you’ll understand.
So I say
Thank you, thank you, thank you,
you thankin’ son of a bitch. 




Last Supper   
              
                                      
This isn’t the worst tasting stuff she’s ever fixed for me.  
And I’m sure she took more time and care preparing it than other dishes she made 
when she still thought she loved me.  
Of course those days are long past 
but she’s still been making meals, albeit grudgingly.  
This evening she seems cheerful about it, 
giving rise to my first twinge of doubt.  
The second twinge comes as she looks at me after that first bite.  
She hasn’t gazed at my face with such intensity 
since those long-past days.  
And I’m sure she isn’t thinking she loves me now.
Long ago when she did, 
I would get this turbulence in my gut 
and the sensation that my head was going to fly off, 
and I figured that was love.  
Little did I suspect what love might become, 
and that some day I’d get the same sort of feeling 
from a dish she would take great care to prepare for me, 
serve cheerfully and watch intensely 
my reaction to this turbulence in my gut 
and the sensation that my head is going to fly off, 
while she waits patiently, 
so patiently, 
for my last twinge of doubt.   

 



As Geese Pass


It starts subtly as an innuendo,
Like a flock of geese approaching, or a train;
Then it gradually swells to a crescendo,
Driving every other notion from your brain.

And the force of this rapture is looming
From front, back, below, and above.
And the thrust of its thrall is consuming,
So that all you dare call it is “love.”

Yet, despite the great power amassing,
There’s the sense that what waxes will wane,
That this passion is all just in passing,
That it’s something the soul won’t sustain.

Even the most potent notion
May be destined to dwindle, then cease
Like the loud but unlasting commotion
Of a train or a flock of geese.






So... After a Falling Out with his Girlfriend, this Fellow Says to Me... 


"Women!  They’re all alike.  Sure, they all have their idiosyncrasies, their quirks, their particular favorite flavors, places, and positions.  But that doesn’t make them different.  They all have essentially the same purpose in mind.  Each one takes her own route to get at it, and you can never guess which route.  So it all turns out the same.  You go one way, she another.  Same result: You’re wrong."  

"They are all alike - impeccably unpredictable.  You never know.  You always never know.  So there you lay with Jane or June or Jo Anne, and they all hate it when you call them by a different name.  It’s an insult to their individuality.  (That’s just another way they’re all alike – they all cherish their individuality; every last Jane and June and Jo Anne.)"

"So you dare not call them by each others’ names, even though you can never seem to remember which set of flavors, places, and positions you are dealing with, because they are basically all the same.  It only makes a difference to Jane and June and Jo Anne.  And so far as you’re concerned, brother, they’re all alike."