March 5, 2013 by The Citron Review
With boisterous self-inflatable whosey-whatsitz aplenty afoot,
how can a miniature freak get any quality slap around here?
Finished fishing for gorgeous sonnets
in the deeps of her bloomers anymore,
I less-the-none feel tight in the lung
and watchful as a poked-out eye.
Mountains are stacked with mercy though,
which makes a man remember warm mommy
stirring oatmeal and bluebirds on the clothesline
and the bosoms of dewy divas orchestrating
asters adjacent the cistern. Things tumble, bleed
and wed is pretty much it. Clown falls asleep
at the tractor wheel, next comes the deadpan
bedpan flash of twin faces to feed. Could go home and shake
the wingnuts from my randy wand I suppose,
but favor restraint long as the roses torment me so well.
May rain soon so I might visit the pretty nodders
in the turning-greenhouse. Few plump drops hit
my page with bossy poise and of a sudden I want
to hit the ground naked and spill my glut into the seeds.
She can do that to a man—Nature—make him focus
on the pacific then drive a train through his groin.
That lesbian in flipflops knows the score.
The garlic in her hooha is just one stroke
of ancestral wisdom keeping malady at bay.
The waves in her short hair are perfect
as children running to and away from home.
Connolly Ryan was born in Greenwich Village, New York in 1967. He is currently a professor of literature at University of Massachusetts, Amherst where he was thrice a finalist for the Distinguished Teaching Award. His visceral and witty poetry has been published in various journals including Bateau, Ditch, Umbrella, Satire, Scythe, Slope, Meat For Tea, Pannax Index, Satire and Old Crow. He is also a multiple Pushcart nominee. He has two finished Manuscripts: Fort Polio and The Uncle Becky Chronicles.