In search of what we do not know

desire what we cannot know

she seeks strange desires inflames.

Strange is the only life I’ve known.


When I was young

I thought for sure

Some girl would marry me

And we’d be happy.


I didn’t know

evils in this world,

tasks of aging disease death.

Under duress I vowed


to be good boy

Most of the time I’m scared.

Life is risky. Everyone

is so treacherous


including myself.

I read somewhere

or someone once told me

poets originate from jesters jokers


hawking insults for king's amusement.


Before I speak another word

Reveal yourself


Will you swear you’re true faithful devoted

never cheated on a boyfriend

promise to marry me

then run back to you ex?


Take your fucking clothes off


Are you terrified yet?

You are an object


to fiddle with, my exquisite

fetish. Sashay round room

sway hips strut. Sit.

Scoot down. Stay.

Bow your head.


Bend your knees.

Closer, show me

your most intimate

soggy swollen dark


down there. Put it

on the table.

Look into my eyes.

Good Girl.


Between you and me

this doesn’t feel like poetry anymore

hawking insults for king's amusement.

actuality I prefer flip-flop

sometimes tied, other times knotting.


Here’s the routine

She gets pissed off at me

And I say fuck off.

Later I realize how much I need her


Beg forgiveness offer anything

Just to crawl back into her arms.

As far as I can tell

You’re all a bunch of tidy


Pussies. No one wants to own up.

What is the matter with you?

Accidents happen.

You’re not safe here.


Pendulum swings

ditch gets deeper

trusting what we know not

cannot know.


Intelligence is delicate thread

Other times knotting.

Scoot down

A little bit more for me, please.


“If there is no god than what do you believe in?”


“How do you pray to nothing?”

“I don’t pray.”

“What do you do when everything turns horrible, and you’re loved ones are endangered?”

“I make plans.”

“What kind of plans?”

“Lunch, dinner.”

“But what if meals are not a consideration? Like if your loved one is anorexic bulimic?”

“I make other plans.”

“What kind of other plans?”

“Plans to make enough money to get free of people like you who ask too many questions.”



I forgot what I was thinking. Maybe I was thinking about love and loss. It is nearly 3 am. She is long gone. Memory is the biggest slut of them all, lying, betraying, reinventing everything, making passion with anyone, laughing hysterically crying.















Views: 80

Comment by Matt Paust on December 20, 2012 at 7:45am

Gets inside the universal head.  Maybe 'twould be better were we all a tad dumber.

Comment by Michael Reid Rubenstein on January 5, 2013 at 5:49am

Max, yes, i agree, 'twould be better were we all a tad dumber. Rita, sweet Rita, thank you, thank you...


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