From: Jail Poems

by Bob Kaufman

28

I am afraid to follow my flesh over those narrow

Wide hard soft female beds, but I do.

From: Jail Poems

by Bob Kaufman

30

I have never seen a wild poetic loaf of bread. But if I did, I would eat it, crust and all.

Danse Russe

by William Carlos Williams

If when my wife is sleeping

and the baby and Kathleen

are sleeping

and the sun is a flame-white disc

in silken mists

above shinning trees,-

if I in my north room

dance naked, grotesquely

before my mirror

waving my shirt round my head

and singing softly to myself:

"I am lonely, lonely.

I was born to be lonely,

I am best so!"

If I admire my arms, my face,

my shoulders, flanks, buttocks

against the yellow drawn shades,-

Who shall say I am not

the happy genius of my household?

Tue Mar 1

The house burned down.

living room roof caved in.

it started with an oil lamp.

I wanted french toast, but cared too much to ask

we tried to put out the flames;

they spread.

the walnut-shaped (but not sized) juicer slash processor remained

I left for a moment: could bear no longer to watch

the house into which you poured your soul

crumble...

or was it fear of reprimand,

you from the tyrant of the house

and I from you?

When I returned

there was a new coat of paint on the walls

the floor was a bit bouncier.

the tyrant ripped from the closet door a towel rack

and we sat back and watched in disgust

the destruction

I cleaned the processor slash juicer

by Joseph Vito Ramírez