ABOUT

CONTENTS

EDITORIAL

ARCHIVE

LAGNIAPPE

MAST

SUBMISSIONS

Two Poems
by Jeff Friedman



In My Book

In my book you’re a hot little terrier
with a sexy back end,
flicking the flies from your tail,
and I’m a mixed breed with brown eyes,
sharp nails and black whiskers much too
long for my muzzle, curling like a cat’s.
I know a few tricks: Touch my fur,
rub my belly, lick my ears.
I roll in damp grass, I open my legs—
Do it again—again.

On Behalf of the Prick

The prick wags his tail
when he’s happy or hungry.
Can you blame him?
He can recite a single poem
in seven languages,
which should tell you something
about his devotion
to a single principle,
and which should make you
love him for his tenderness.
The prick’s lips sparkle
with a special lip gloss.
His nature’s bittersweetness,
sweet if you touch him,
bitter if you don’t.
He’s written a bible of sorts,
spreading the word
when he gets a chance.
When torpid,
he’s not tumid, which is lucky
for you…nor, push comes to shove,
does he explode
with turgid force, except
perhaps if he smells turmeric
or remembers his tupelo roots.
Consider his cousin, the pygmy
chimp, a natural born cheater,
swinging from bash to bash.
Consider the long-tailed widow
bird, lounging around all day
with his angry harem. All in all,
you’ve got a good deal.
When necessary, he cleans house.
He even puts away the dishes
and the Tupperware while
you lie on your pillow. Evolution’s
left him a little breathless.
So what if the walls are stained
and the mirror smeared
and you’re slightly, or even totally, bemused.
Three minutes—he gets the job done.
Kudos to the prick.