USA

jkevinwolfe@worldnet.att.net 

Paper Ballots

We elect wrapping paper
(No spit all polish)
Cellophane
(easily seen 
through)

because we don't 
know what 
could be lurking 
in opaque

So we vote the wrapping paper 
of our conscience
(unless there's namesake 
in Dad's wrapping paper)

The only issue is charisma
(What else?)
A smile, not too toothy 
(we don't want bite)

We don't want policy 
just heartfelt bravado
(Oh beautiful 
for empty words)

Always fearing 
that any more substance 
(than a spangled balloon)
might tip the static quo

©copyright 1999 J. Kevin Wolfe

Picasso's Dora Maar 
and the Village Idiot

I like your picture Dora Maar.
I would know you from it anywhere.
Your green-red-rose, pale-white skin 
a flawless union 
awash in morning yellow.

"I don't look normal."

Your forehead is unafraid 
of your steelgreen hair.
Obedient in front
and disciplined behind your shoulder.
It is the choppiness of the Mediterranean 
against a long deep pier.

"You are a handsome idiot."

Handsomeness is an attribute of idiocy.

"All I ever wanted was beauty."

You may have mine.
I would rather observe 
the conversation of your eyes 
that stare into each other.
One salmon, one white 
as if you have two souls.

"Only an idiot could find me beautiful."

I find you perfect as a picture.
Traipsing red nails on rigid fingers
direct me to your lyric clef ear 
like an invitation.

"If one finds me beautiful
no other critic matters."

When I first saw your picture I wanted 
to kiss it's strict nose with two left nostrils
and free you from your sleep of canvas.

"I long for your dumbstruck, perfect lips
pressed against the one blandness of my face."

Obtuseness is all that's worth kissing.

© copyright 1999 J. Kevin Wolfe

Satan's Minions

The devil is flanked 
by sixty seven thousand
eight hundred two in-
surance salesmen 'cause only 
God can market certainty

© copyright 1998 J. Kevin Wolfe

The Tree Watches Over The House

Hundred years ago
mama oak stood alone
in the summer
of a big flat wasteland

A someone
cut her knees
roughed her into boards
there chunked a human birthplace

Right beside mama
acorn grew
until the sharp summer sun 
never pierced a window

yet he blocked not a stream 
of genial light
in the razor air
of a January morn

Long as she stands so will he
as the tree
watches over
the house

© copyright 1999 J. Kevin Wolfe

the prospective model

come to my room
i have some grapes

they are wine in adolescence
red and green
blood and innocence
in this tiny fingered orb

hold it to the light
see the veins and freckles?

i split it 
with my precise teeth
it says "kitsch"
but we know it lies

i place the other half
between the promise of your lips
you bite
i'll kiss the sweetness dripping 
from your chin

come to my room
i have some life

© copyright 1999 J. Kevin Wolfe

All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.