Just getting warmed up

Sunday night and the way things flow it's hours before we get bored. I can’t lie Ms. LadyGlow, you attract me like no other; it’s our chance at something special. But you are shy and I’m an unpredictable loon, so they say. Wrong. Oh that's wrong. Don’t take quirks for a lack of interest; don’t fall for the directness of a common thug. Transparency and tallness have their drawbacks. Don't listen to the echo of your DNA desires – it’s time you understood where evolution ought to go. You and I have a future. We could have rhythm to topple all those arthritic drones. I like the flutter of your dress, the touch of the fabric, rose-print on silk, and I’m glad you avoid glitter, it’s so adolescent. This first number’s fast and made for flirting. Leonard Cohen had to wait for his miracle, but I’m witnessing one right in front of me. Your shoes don’t move like an Earthling’s shoes. Which planet gave you gravity, floating in a circle like Saturn’s rings? I can’t tell your skin under this light; it's dark chocolate or whip cream or olive with spice. I dance slow at the start but think fast on my feet, I whisper in your ear at a thousand miles an hour – so who needs to shout. I slicked my hair in the bathroom and now I’ve got my A-game out. Let’s be honest, I dance because I like it when you like it. And I like us alone in a crowd. I dance on a mission, and every melody is a mission statement, varies by tempo, buttered with bass. So how much medicine – how many sentences - have I got to tame to make you heel?


Curious Luther McGee

(an exercise in shouting)

Sweet cudgels of glory
- heaven can’t fool an ermine philatelist. Deny yourself no Pez - least not near the solstice. Please, Captain Kippers - yelp if you need a nutcrackin’. Help with the harvest, in this age of delicatessens. Crack to it, mensheviks, we have a deadline. Bossanova under the bridges, and kiss hairsalon Salom├ęs with lipliner. Dirigibles in the moonlight? Consider me a volunteer! Hosanna to Vesuvius, or truth or dare with Destro. Populate my bandwagon because I hibernate no more. Oil fields? Small wonder we flame high!

Okra intrusions - shrimply insubordination? I scoff at the infestation! I want clean decks for suntanning! Where is my wigwam - I have to urinate. Grim grow the gazpatcho chefs. Jellied are the German gargantua, and noodle-necked are the pastamakers. And this is a prism populace, and this is meerkat la-cucaracha? Fie fie - I fawn for no one but Dr. Phil. I fake nothing for my patron saint of gruel.

Have we no wine? And who drinks all the Fanta – the phantasms? Shibboleth till Kwanza, I’m spent of phlegm and spork-prone till I drool. Although you’re my mother’s mirror-image, you stink of catcher’s mitt nonetheless; of armpit and pus-of-zit. But I love your squid pro quo and I like your tat for tit.

Jezebel. A model girlfriend? I can’t answer with clean face or rapier-wit or straight-laces or baldpatedness. Who can curl a cucumber, something so vegetable and straight? Ah... Curious Luther McGee, he is gay times three, but I'll never grow tired of being me.


sooner rather than later

sometimes you feel so
stupid that
you can't look at yourself in the mirror
(or is it
the mirror looks away

we are cursed by ourselves and
we get what we

notice how we don't use the word "I"

together we all hope to be
understood and

he is no exception

please understand
he is
stupid stupid stupid


World Cup of Toronto?

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