To all the heteroflexible bros

     dragged out to my shows by their devious
     girlfriends—the tough guys whose wandering eyes
     walk sticky venue aisles and transgress
     subtlety’s fine lines like razors hands press
     against envious wrists, you whose glares fall
     midway like late, lazy subliminal
     elevators down onto my crowded
     mezzanine, my arsenal bulge fired up,
     obscene at the scene—the mere thought—that those
     bored skulls of yours might want, actually,

     to ride me, to eat up every last
     morsel of my hungriest asshole down
     to the gristle, to lick my bone and feel
     cultured because you managed to nail what
     seemed impossible: a sexually-
     ambiguous author whose deep drawl calls
     to women and to men, each curious
     bro bewildered that culture could subdue
     them into digging art—especially
     mine, heat fired out from a piece of muzzle-

     loaded meat my cavernous mouth unloads,
     each poem a steel-toothed beast my hard words
     unleash to greet husbands, fucks, and unwed
     companions, those whose unsuspecting babes
     never anticipated it, but won’t
     reprimand their beaux for wanting it, oh,
     the best of it these girls, with their pursed lips
     and parted legs, of their philandering
     dates will make—full coitus with a poet
     whose cock grows like a lie, enflamed by each

     vagrant tongue stroking it, climbing it with
     not-so-innocent glances begging not
     my mind, but my pants for a glimpse of it,
     your thirsty eyes rolling back like a tide
     of downy clouds poured out like spilled marbles
     banging my alabaster thighs—yes, I
     see you; oh, I do and when I finish
     my set, I expect you each to wait by
     the stage door and waste no time getting on
     all fours, abiding my magnificence,

     admiring, if you will, the Byzantine
     mosaic of my dressing room/temple’s
     hallowed floor, and pray that you don’t get too
     wet, as well, by some lord we’re forgiven
     as I seed it then jet, leaving you filled
     with my ætherous quintessence, hoping
     you’ll keep it like a secret—a soaking
     remembrance of our meeting whenever
     she stares at you in silence, wondering
     herself, “What has he got that I haven’t‽”