It Rains

Cheap wine in a plastic cup.

That’s what things have come to,

as I sit on the porch alone

in the overripe loneliness

of an endless summer afternoon

punctuated only

by a pop-up thundershower,

and ponder the inevitable decay

represented by a neighbor’s

flag, its stars hanging heavy,

its stripes tattered at the ends.

 

There’s a season for chasing dreams,

a time to pull away

from  the dead ones.

The hawk still circles

up toward the clouds,

but the squirrel lies

car-flattened in the street.

 

The rain grows harder,

washing in on me,

but I still feel unclean,

and if there’s meaning in it,

I don’t know.

 

Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper

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Speed Swimmers

duckolympics

Like arrows shot from a taut-stringed bow,

a paddling of ducklings pushes off at speed

from the edge of the pond,

almost too quick for the camera’s eye

whenever a human passes.

 

Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper

Mister Right Now

After Shakespeare and Mullen

 

My Grindr hookup’s eyes are kind of dark,

but mostly red from smoking too much weed.

If manscaped chests are smooth, he’s a grassy park;

if appearance reveals class, then he is seedy.

 

I’ve seen a whole shitload of rainbow merch,

but he’s all in black, a too-old goth.

I know that he would leave me in the lurch

if he got a text from someone hotter.

 

If colognes were oceans, I could swim in his;

he could’ve skipped the spritz and taken a shower.

But he’s here and his dick is pretty big,

so, what the hell; we’ll be done in half an hour.

 

He’s about as godlike as a spade,

but I’m fucking desperate to get laid.

 

Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper

Hesky Kluk? Check!

He wasn’t actually Czech, of course,

though he checked all of my boxes,

European possibly, or Latin American,

speaking a Romance language to his friend,

in line behind me at the grocery checkout,

buying flowers, lilies, I think, for someone

else, probably one of his lovers,

but I had already checked him out

from produce, over by the mangos,

his hair tied up, muscular T-shirted torso,

lightly-haired legs between shorts and sneakers,

probably an international student at the uni,

not Czech at all, but still a pretty boy.

 

Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper

Happy Yak

I was so surprised to find the yak in the kitchen at 3 a.m.,

especially at this altitude in the middle of summer,

wearing a kilt, rummaging through the fridge

in search of salad greens, and drinking my last beer,

that I was initially speechless, but I eventually

collected myself enough to ask, “Wouldn’t you

be happier at a higher elevation in a significantly

colder climate?” But he only grunted, waved

away my question with a cloven hoof, and

said, “You can research habitats on the internet,

but that doesn’t make you an expert on happiness.”

 

Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper

Preparation

Advisory: Sexually explicit

 

Like a mother cat grooming her young

as they grow toward maturity,

I lick your dick until its resting softness

hardens and reaches its adult potential

to fuck my hungry hole until I  scream and take your load.

 

Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper

Premature Guilt

Even in forests primeval, did innocence dwell,

among the tawny creatures in leafy dales,

or was it an imaginary essence unseen

not only in the city but among the greens?

 

If it ever existed, we cannot  say,

though we claim to have lost it along the anxious way;

we struggle to reclaim it, but never will–

same old story, Prometheus, rock, and hill.

 

We claim that Eden was a paradise,

yet Eve and Adam rolled dice and got snake eyes–

so evil came in shortly after first light;

before they entered the ring, they had lost the fight.

 

And light itself shadow creates, so thus

we are marked with darkness, unlucky us.

 

Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper