David Laskowski


Ornate peristyle, the peristaltic --
The wildest kinds of sex:
The back-door, the mummenchance
&, even, the split-tangiers.
And given their due,
No matter how hard they’d try
To describe such foolishness:
The back-saddle, the big tomb,
And even the higher flyer –
Those monsters who monstered the day
In that bitch of a light.
For how can you describe such things?
As a donkey with its head in its own ass?
Or as a bat sucking on its own radio waves?
Or, perhaps, two jackanapes wrestling in Vaseline?
For there’s real way
And there’s no reason why.
One ape mounts another
And the human race lives on.


White pearls in the black mathematics
of a stinkpot or snapper.
Follicles of a shit-storm
and the wave that crashed into our house.
For there is no luck like puppy luck.
No luck like animal luck.
No luck in the world like the luck
Of a bone buried in the backyard.
The beloved luck of simple things
Interred into our hearts –
Those fat black cancers of love.
They seep their fire
Into our bodies, like those shells
subtracted from the sea.

e-mail the poet at djl@uwm.edu
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