A Man’s Guide To These United States

Louisville?
I have never been,
but I have a bat
from Louisville
at my bedside;
the name alone
comforts me.

Picked it up to
kill a mouse yesterday —
no real fun in that.
No slick crunch
like a head or knee.
But I digress.

Huntington Beach?
I have been there.
I didn’t like it much —
it seemed less broken
than I like
although it’s possible
the bigger breaks
are under the surface.

I did feel menaced
in the night there, once —
slid my hand onto my knife
and as always I hoped
and was horrified
by my hoping —
but I did hope,
and as always,
nothing happened.

Once,
in Cambridge,
I was accused
of critiquing a poem
I’d heard read
in a bookstore
exactly as if
I’d been challenged
to a cock-measuring.

I smiled at the thought
and subconsciously (I’m sure)
touched myself.
Still a winner.

Life in these United States
can be a sheer fuckin’ joy —
and I’m saying what I mean
when I use those words.

Sheer:
near transparent,
or vertical
and deadly.

Fuckin’:
Big man coming through.
Ain’t got no time for the voiced “gee.”
I carry my own.

Joy:
the word they have always used
for how this feels.
“Joy” it is.