By the laws of Gitche Gumee
                stood my lover, Backside Pouting,
                shouts my help-meet, backside flouting,
                It's not moral, doing nothing.
                Get out of here, get me some money,
                screw. Pumping heavy metal's mean,
                Jack-off, forego sculpting abs obscene.

            She slept over, tossed
            Her Wonder-Bra
            On the bedpost.

            I put a pink packet
            Of fake sweetener
            In a cup, her B cup.

            Except ye know ye must go,
            accept ye know not where
            St. Muldoon, Apochrypha XX:20

            The French, they have a password for it:
            faire pipi, cabine, pissoir.
            While the Queen of the Hudson just
            prints a million signifiers:
            REST ROOMS RESERVED FOR CUSTOMERS.

        At poetry workshop, my instructor came clean:
        "poetry is washed up. I wasted 20 life-years

        recycling publishing crap - in chapbooks, thin volumes.
        Who knew."

        "Sanitation engineers, "we piped up. "Wrong,
        as usual," she said. "Garbagemen."

        She was 8 chapters into an expose of her obsessed love,
        life with a $million constructionist

            Learned Behavior

            Father taught me animal courtesy,
            crowd the bowl-handier,
            put your hands in her face.

            Mother, why always?, "don't open the fridge
            with sticky fingers, don't lean on the door."