Thin men in designer jeans,
fresh out of mental clinics,
rehab, or 12 step programs,
sit cross legged on the floor
talking about Alanon, Alcoholics Anonymous,
Hard Love, or about hardly any love at all.
She & her group are in and out
of therapy, a lot. Artistic types.
Each one intense, about everything
The women refuse to shave anything.
They believe in pyramid power:
eat Sea Grass, Ginseng, Bee Pollen & wild Sea Kelp.
They sit together talking & talking
about Georgia O’ Keefe & Frida Kahlo.
As I sit
thinking of the energy
it takes to go in and out
of clinics, workshops, support groups,
a woman of the ARTS
walks over & says:
"I sing opera out my asshole."
"What's your repertoire?" I inquire.
"Mostly Wagner, but I do some Bizet.
Would you like my ass to perform?"
Her buttocks would send Rubens for oils.
David for marble & Persian poets could
achieve religious rhapsody.
If ancient Helen's face launched a thousand sails,
this ass could force the evacuation
of the fishing fleet from San Pedro Harbor.
"Would you like to hear
The Ride of the Valkyries?"
Her face tightens to a fist,
something burbles and rumbles.
Suddenly, she farts:
spraying the thin young men
with a dewy-brown-patina.
There's scattered applause.
"Ever seen talent like mine?" she asks.
Walk over to her purse, open it,
pull out my pecker & start peeing.
It makes a noise like water
into a hollow bucket.
I fill it up.
The applause was thunderous.
We never discussed ART again.