My Pen is Full
Posted by Simone Stolzoff | Filed under '11 Spring: We Real Cool, Poetry, Print, Show Poems
Imagine all your friends on the dance floor.
All your friends.
Well this was my night—
all my friends.
All my white, jewish, sweat stained,
can-barely-jump-over-a-box-of-matzah
friends on the dance floor.
I imagine our future sons bar-mitzvahs—
us trying to clap to the beat
like bad sprinters trying to anticipate the gun,
always reacting a little too late—
but we were doing our thing.
A girl comes up to my friend saying “you look like you need someone to dance with,”
and with a I just ate a half hour ago look in his eyes he smiles,
“Nah I’m just dancing with my boys.”
That night we were dancing
like there were shot clocks on our ankles
and pop rocks in our socks.
I felt the same way about my moves
as I did about my hand jobs—
no girl in the world could do them better!
And we could care less that there less girls on the dancefloor
than at a no-shave-november convention
cuz fuck girls, we just wanted to dance!
So unike most my other nights
and all my other poems
this one was for the fellas.
And to the few ladies who’ve
I’ve had the pleasure of showing
my, well yano.
You prolly wish it was longer…
but if it grows at the same rate its grown for the last 10 years
I’m gonna die with a penis at least three feet long.
Now we’re back on the dancefloor
And CeeLo Green comes on
And even the most stubborn wallflower
starts dancing cuz that piano intro is happier
than golden arches for a big mac junkie.
More middle fingers infiltrate the air than when Sarah Palin visited San Francisco.
And all us on the dancefloor could care less about
the fact the sprinkler and the shopping cart stopped being cool about 10 years ago.
Becuase for all my life,
I’ve had the same 3 man wolfpack.
This Italian Jew, a Pizza Bagel if you will,
with guy who used to have me over for thanksgiving dinner on my right
and the guy that taught me how to masturbate on my left.
We danced until the morning
and we couldn’t be happier stumbling home to our parent’s houses
cause we had reached our full bro-tencial.
So at that cheesburgers and regret point in the late evening,
we decided right then and then that when we’re older we’ll get
tattoos across our shafts that read “my penis is beautiful.”
And hopefully I’ll get it when I’m hard,
so when I’m soft it’ll read “my pen is full.”
And that’s really all I need.
Cuz with a full pen
and a full heart
the girls might come,
but even if they don’t come around any more
I still got my boys on the dance floor!
Papas
Posted by Ivy Sole | Filed under Poetry, Print
I know you.
Pompous in exterior,
The extant,
Ex wrought iron armor.
Glistening like mornings dew.
About face,to
a mirror.
Droplets plummet,
Accompanied by slumber’s evidence.
Wide awake.
My Mr. Potatohead,
Dense, fibrous and rooted,
Key to amygdaloid compass.
Palms acquainted with sun, raised
Infinitely to greet her face.
My face.
I watch you in awe.
Curve of jaw, bone
Of nose ready to take flight.
Lifted in proud cognizance of
self.
Treading lightly on rest,
More apt to show power,
Motion in steering towards.
Drawing lines, uniting us.
Oh how you love me.
I won’t know it,
For it is not to be known.
The X factor, making my
Reflection over why I love axes,
And my exes weren’t it.
You are the sonnet to my starstruck map,
Leading to kneeling at altars,
Needing what can’t be altered,
Rocking bands, no games,
Play-doh and tiny socks.
I know you.
The one who won’t leave,
For sake of me and your seed.
Contrary to my own,
Is everything you will be.
Papa, food for the soul.
What Man Feels for Muse
Posted by Cortney Charleston | Filed under Poetry, Print
I am meta for
you. Change me for the better.
All of this must grow.
he, he, he – a giggle
Posted by Marion Smallwood | Filed under Poetry, Print
ceiling fan –
what a four winged liar
to make me think that’s his breath on my neck, his wind
his attitude about moving my hair
he takes things to a jar, leaves it
lidless – a load off my lungs
he won’t call it stealing but i know better
we discuss ‘we’
decide it’s just a drawbridge
and move slowly to where the other is coming from
i don’t look down, i love him
so i crawl into my phone
fit my drink and bed and toes
bring my suitcase full of little things
and give him handfuls
the space bursts
it will, i become millions
collect me like a paperclip
hold poems together with me
and promise nothing
