There are better days. No one is addressing
the issues. Philosopher kings seem remote.
The world is on the brink of disaster. Sound
familiar? I watch the food on the tip of her
fork resolve itself in her mouth. She's naked
except for the rouge and lipstick. It's green,
maybe broccoli. No Hollandaise sauce is
evident. I've been told that she has the clap.
She chews twenty-eight times as I count
out loud. She swallows as my eyes move
to her esophagus. I am wearing a foulard tie.
At the exact moment of orgasm she will pull
the Windsor knot tight about my throat
cutting off the oxygen. Now it is fettuccini.
"What are you looking at?" she asks. The TV
sputters as the cable kicks off. Unfolded,
the salmon papillote is color-coordinated with
her vaginal opening. Clothes are superfluous,
simply taste. "I accept Diner's Club and cash."
Finally, the dessert course and assorted
cheeses: Voila! she bends, her ass pointed
to the ceiling. I could give a damn about the
shareholders report as another species faces
extinction. The oceans are rising. The Earth
is sinking. A meteor is on its way. Of course,
she's not old, but it's too late for statutory rape.
Would you stick
a Cuban cigar
up your cunt
if the President
of the U.S. asked?
Would you remove
the Ben Wa balls
first and then the dildo
from your ass?
When you sold
the movie rights,
did you specify
a preference as to
the porn actress
who gets your part?
Were you once
just an innocent
princess on the make?
Is that your take
in the memoir?
Did you remove
the cigar band?
Will we have to buy
the book? What
kind of pizza
did you deliver?
I adore anchovies.
John Cantey Knight lives down in the Big Easy. His poetry has appeared in Devil Blossoms, The Birmingham Poetry Review, The Plastic Tower, Struggle, 13thWR and many, many others.