Two poems I'm working on now...this very minute...

The beginning of an updated version of TS Eliot's "Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock" for the youth of today, today being roughly 1999, the youth being an uncertain fiction, culled together from my own distant memories of high school, written partly in response to a friend in graduate school who said were Shakespeare alive today he would be a rapper, but also done in full appreciation of rap and of some of the acts who are really fucking good, indeed the narrator is to be a suburban kid, so the real point of this is not class, or race, but rather a certain impoverishment of discourse which, though not universal, is, I believe, widespread and is real and is a problem.


Yo homes, let's bounce
when the night
looks like some dude in a coma;
Let's jet through the empty boulevard
freestylin'
About, I don't know, hos, and loneliness
and fastfood joints and styromfoam;




Secondly a poem about the inevitable confusions - emotional, psychological, physical - that are bound to arise during a menage a trois...


Oh, whose thigh is this?
Upon it I wish to dine!

Bite it I must, my dear -
Ouch! That thigh is mine!