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Why I Want to Have Sex with Poets
David E. Patton

Their hands knows the moment of a million sound
…Words fall hard to shatter, recollect into some other,
Hubble bubble words hover above the scent of an emotion

Their tongues transverse hidden lands
…Short leaf pine, rough bark of cinnamon red scales,
Dark-blue green needles devise against the
Evanescence blue evening of tonguesville

Their breath smells of the alphabet
…Ox water Alpha and beta before gamma,
Damp or fluent as lambda, flesh coffins
Hissing young grass after taste of decompose tress.

Their eyes see what other ignore
…Our minds blacken by its own shadow
Enclosed as the acorn of over cup oak
As sycamore ball borne on the bone of our spine

They will bear witness to their own thoughts
…If everything could be said there will still remain
A handful of words; flocks of captured blackbirds
Endless circling for a way out

They come to except earth’s simple truth
…Earth produce no waste of stone, water, bark, flesh
Or bones. All is consumed, consummation of ones own
Importance, death impregnate life eternal.

They freely give it to you
…Man eat air eternal, a shared plate
Drinks from the same earthen bowl,
Spilling our water with water of all that flows.

They are spies of the Gods
…Knowing of what going on
Beneath the dine size flowering moon, perplex
Expression  looking down on St. Louis.

They ware a simplistic cover
…No return from nature, no separation  but
Imagined superiority
Shows extent of human ignorance.

They are earth centered
…Earnest earth owns nothing but itself.
In sleep we breathe as earth breathes innate
Life is whole owning to itself alone.

They masquerade
…As mesquites, cat, as moon, as jay, as tress
As transmitter and antenna insects, as banjo
Or lyre, as micro cosmic vision focused on an eye.
Man for woman each for the other pleading.

They are forever examining, poking eyes into emotion
…See Aluriste and Antler, Patchen and Poe
William and Whitman, Ginse and Gun, Vorhes and Emily
Rys and Bye, Delgado and Lorca, Hughes and Hayden and Kent Johnson’s eye
Translating Nicaragua poetry

Poetry is emotional
…There is no shelter from the confusing
Emotional weather that governs
The landscape of our mental garden


David E. Patton writing has appeared in Mad Blood, The James White Review, Rocky Mountain Arsenal of the Arts, Bay Window, 7, and Guide. His chapbook, Milk Bowl Moon over St. Louis appeared in 2003 from Perisistencia Press. Also an accomplished, playwright, Composer, painter and sculptor, Patton currently resides in his hometown of St. Louis, having spent much of the pass quarter century living in Denver, Boulder, Milwaukee and Boston. His book The Trinity was published by Turkey Buzzard Press in 2008
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