Place Your Bet

I could write poems about her collarbone.
I could craft sonnets about the nape of her neck.

I could assemble a booklet of haikus concerning the

     hollow at the small of her back.

A year's worth of letters to the editor

     could be filled

    with my thoughts about

     her earlobes.

Her blue eyes: chapters 1 through 12 of my Great American Novel.

To describe the curve of her hips, I would learn French.

For every part of her

I could compose

a masterpiece with paper, ink, and pen,

to titillate,

to thrill,

to transfix and captivate.

But the softness of her lips,

that's just for me.

-kj 

10/19/2022

The Fiercest Of The Species

An FB post on March 17th, 2021:

I was digging through boxes in my closet last weekend, looking for old tax receipts, and I found a bunch of notebooks full of poetry I wrote in college. They are all various shades of terrible (I was 19, adept only at drinking beer in the woods and chasing girls), but this one has always made me laugh:

sweet nothing,

you are moving.

in my eyes and in

my head

full of insects

buzzing 

and 

always,

always

running full-tilt

into a brick wall

built

by your mother.

kj 11/8/96