WHY I SHOULD NEVER DRINK
Last night I fumbled for my love
poem’s bra-latch while kissing
each feminine rhyme, each enjambed
syllable drenched in my whiskied breath,
when suddenly my nightmare zipper
popped, and what should poke
out but a rifle barrel? Something
high caliber—something automatic.
Just then the title of my next red-faced
rant came to me: “Power Politics
and the Death of Pleasure.”