INTERROGATION (Transcript One)

For Jack Webb

I have no fancy language, I won’t dance
or sing for you.  Someone else
draws naked women, has them
printed in magazines opposite
better poems than this one.
Someone else sees the moon
for what it is not,
notices Venus approaching it,
calls me on the phone.
I look out the window because
it's my job. In another city
you'd say I’m spying.
Everyone here believes
they’ve imagined everything,
it’s the chemicals in the air.

A priest on television
who eats the Body of Christ
condemns sadomasochistic movies,
hates “hard-core pornography,”
disapproves of “soft porn.”
        “The dehumanizing tendencies
        of society are controlled
        by organized crime.”
Hold that thought.

If I think of myself, visualize
myself doing it, but never
write it down, am I safe?
So what if went home
with the shrill woman I met
at the poetry reading in the church,
& after we bickered about art
& emptied a bottle of wine,
she bit my finger off
while we were screwing.

I’m only saying what the crime
syndicate allows me to say.
Did I really mean to say my finger?
Yes, if my poetics are up-to-date.

Getting back to your question.
I don’t care who looks at my ass
or even if you put it in a lineup.
I don’t care if dogs sniff my ass.
In all matters concerning my ass
I am definitely an ass man.
I always save my ass first.
When I’m feeling lousy
I kiss my own ass. In fact,
I am nothing but an ass
with a doomed man sitting on me.
Now, get off my ass or book me.

©2000 Robert Rixon