I wrote you a love poem,
garnished it with pepper,
and served it flambe.
And they all turned it down,
they all turned it down.
Told me writing was about writing,
and what the hell was I doing,
writing about you?
writing about,
writing about you.
and I don’t know about them,
getting their fills of watching the cooking of things,
but me I’ve got this gut-suck-need for the products,
and before those bigoted new-critics get to taking the me from me,
you are, you are what you eat.
And I cook to eat.
And all the five-stars in the world,
couldn’t make what I make,
on two stars and some change.
I know I’ve got to change
I’ve got to,
got to change.
Getting high and watching I Love Lucy reruns,
knowing there’s just something, something about the I.
What the hell am I doing?
Writing about you.
writing about,
writing about you.
And I don’t get it,
I’m walking around with that moth squiggle wallet-wheeze,
dancing wordy jigs just for the attention.
But I still get these matromony dreams,
[the university president’s wife,
the one who hugged me shirtless–
half-breathes time from pantless,
she pours me a glass of hundred dollar whiskey,
says, “you deserve this.”]
Slip that ring on my finger,
say to all and heaven too:
I love you.
I love,
love you.
and I kept sleeping in to hear you say, I do.
But each wake was just another wake of it.
And what the hell am I doing,
writing about you?
writing about,
writing about you.
I’ve got a lot of good reasons not to,
but getting high, and thinking about that I.
[ain’t hard to bet Lucille Ball,
chose that “y” to all make the difference]
I want to run/
I want to stay.
I love Luci/
I Love Lucy.
I wrote you a love poem,
garnished it with pepper,
and served it flambe.
And they all turned it down,
they all turned it down.
Told me writing was about writing,
and what the hell was I doing,
running to you?
running to,
running to you.
