Kryptonite
Ron Koertge 

Lois liked to see the bullets bounce
off Superman’s chest, and of course
she was proud when he leaned into
a locomotive and saved the crippled
orphan who had fallen on the tracks. 

Yet on those long nights when he was
readjusting longitude or destroying
a meteor headed right for some nun,
Lois considered carrying just a smidgen
of kryptonite in her purse or at least
making a tincture to dab behind her ears. 

She pictured his knees giving way,
the color draining from his cheeks.
He’d lie on the couch like a guy with
the flu, too weak to paint the front
porch or take out the garbage. She
could peek down his tights or draw
on his cheek with a ball point. She
might even muss his hair and slap
him around.

“Hey, what’d I do?” he’d croak just
like a regular boyfriend. At last.

***

So, for the first time ever, I’ve reprinted a poem already featured here at Zen.  Now this is extra special dontcha know, because the act of doing so totally fucks with my artistic sensibilities and weird sense of "rightness."  To bring this to you in all one big cohesive piece, this Catholic-school-girl-gone-bad, FemDom-in-control has violated her own "blog esthetics."  I normally don’t include art or pix with my PSOetry entries and I never repeat myself.   Okay, maybe I do repeat myself, but only when what I have to say should be said again or should be heard again. 

Take this picture for example:  how could I publish this picture without including the freakin’ poem?  I mean they do go together like cotton and candy, Nick and Nora, pizza and beer, stockings and garters, Victoria and her Secret.

So don’t just be here for the pictures.  Read the poem!  (Besides, if you found your way here in the midst of a porn jones, you are surely going to starve.)

Do it because you love me, do it because your a submissive and/or a submissive sissy and you don’t dare say "no" to me, do it because you appreciate poetry, do it because you aren’t so super keen on what’s required of your "manliness," do it ‘cuz I said so.

And quit your whining about the whole damn thing, lest I send Lois Lane to kick your bitch ass.

xo, Angela

BTW:  The same Mr. J who turned me on to this poem sent me the picture.  And we all thank him.  Don’t we?

Dear Friend:  we
   Are operating at capacity
and cannot
   supply a green and grassy spot
for your tomb,
   as there is no more room. 

Instead, you are invited to entrust
   your dust
To our space-age morticians, who seal
   in stainless steel
(thanks to post-Newtonian science)
   our clients. 

Whereupon you
   (and all your shiny loved ones, too)
shall ascend
   via chartered rocketship, to spend
eternity
   very near where Heaven used to be.

***

Ms. Taylor’s website.

What Teachers Make, or
Objection Overruled, or
If things don’t work out, you can always go to law school

Taylor Mali

He says the problem with teachers is, "What’s a kid going to learn
from someone who decided his best option in life was to become a teacher?"
He reminds the other dinner guests that it’s true what they say about
teachers:
Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.

I decide to bite my tongue instead of his
and resist the temptation to remind the other dinner guests
that it’s also true what they say about lawyers.

Because we’re eating, after all, and this is polite company.

"I mean, you’re a teacher, Taylor," he says.
"Be honest. What do you make?"

And I wish he hadn’t done that
(asked me to be honest)
because, you see, I have a policy
about honesty and ass-kicking:
if you ask for it, I have to let you have it.

You want to know what I make?

I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could.
I can make a C+ feel like a Congressional medal of honor
and an A- feel like a slap in the face.
How dare you waste my time with anything less than your very best.

I make kids sit through 40 minutes of study hall
in absolute silence. No, you may not work in groups.
No, you may not ask a question.
Why won’t I let you get a drink of water?
Because you’re not thirsty, you’re bored, that’s why.

I make parents tremble in fear when I call home:
I hope I haven’t called at a bad time,
I just wanted to talk to you about something Billy said today.
Billy said, "Leave the kid alone. I still cry sometimes, don’t you?"
And it was the noblest act of courage I have ever seen.

I make parents see their children for who they are
and what they can be.

You want to know what I make?

I make kids wonder,
I make them question.
I make them criticize.
I make them apologize and mean it.
I make them write, write, write.
And then I make them read.
I make them spell definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful, definitely
beautiful
over and over and over again until they will never misspell
either one of those words again.
I make them show all their work in math.
And hide it on their final drafts in English.
I make them understand that if you got this (brains)
then you follow this (heart) and if someone ever tries to judge you
by what you make, you give them this (the finger).

Let me break it down for you, so you know what I say is true:
I make a goddamn difference! What about you?

 *** 

Fabulous or what?  Gotta love a passionate man.

Wanna see and hear the poet recite the poem?  CLICK HERE

And then visit his fabulously put together website, where he is sporting long hair and looking damn good.   GET YOUR BUTT OVER THERE NOW

And you can READ HIS BLOG HERE

Oh, and he has some very cool STUFF FOR SALE HERE

FYI, a beloved and cherished caller, who just so happens to be an attorney, sent me this particular poem. 

Thank you Mr J.:  For the poetry you’ve learned to love (for which I happily take credit *wink*), the friendship you share, your outrageous sense of humor and your beautifully liberal heart.  Not to mention the fabulous kink you share with me … or whoever happens to pick up the phone.

xo, Angela

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o’ auld lang syne.

Despite my sassy and sometimes cocky demeanor, I do have my mushy side (leave the Bitch Slave Boys to their dreams) and Robert Burn’s song actually always causes the tears to well.  Even typing them here, the music and words ran through my head, then took a detour right straight to my heart.

I’m actually going to a party this evening, which should make your jaw drop, because New Year’s Eve with all its forced frivolity is something I normally and obstinately avoid.  Don’t worry–I won’t drink and drive.  And won’t even get drunk.  Maybe a slight buzz if the mood is right, but I do mean just right.

A fair to middling year as years go.  But I blogged and you showed up.  Some of you called and we explored your fantasies, some of you wrote emails to say hello or comment privately on a particular post, some of you commented here, some of you were silent…but I felt your presence.  

We started the year out with a (much celebrated) public lynching for chrizt’s sake.  It broke my heart.  And you understood. 

I got sidetracked with way too many projects and — for a while — didn’t blog as often as I should have (no new savants in 2007!  But I promise more in 2008) and you still showed up and I love you for it.

You sent me dirty pictures and I published two that I thought were super sexy here and here.  And everybody agreed with us whole-heartedly … proving that we do, indeed, know what is fucking hot! 

Our resident Pervert Savant kept us entertained with his very original and always hilarious installments of Lingerie on the Razor-Wire, The Poignant Story of a Young Pre-Operative Transsexual Forced into a Life of Twisted Sex and Degradation in the Sordid Confines of America’s Penal System!

We went to a wedding.  And I must say that you looked absolutely dapper, my darling. 

I shared with you the inter-office emails my sister, Bethany, forwarded to me — including God vs. Devil and What Men Do with Post-Its.

We went parochial and liked it so much we did it again. 

We got hot and bothered, down and dirty, all fired up, queer kinky and lesbian lovely.  It was downright decadent and we didn’t even have to wash out our mouths with soap afterwards.

Humiliation was the kink du jour, so I was in turn a Righteous Bitch, a Heartless Vamp, a Cuckolding Brat.  And then I laughed my ass off while you begged for mercy.  Admit it, you loved every minute of it.

I lamented and you held my hand.  I was tacky and you pretended to not notice.  I bragged about my this and that and you were happy for me. So I bragged some more and still you were happy for me.  I fucked off and you waited patiently.  I got on my soap box and you didn’t even roll your eyes.  I pontificated and you just smiled.  I bloviated and you acted like what I said mattered. I fucked around with everybody and anybody and you forgave me. Or maybe it’s just that you like to watch?

We read poetry.  We found some cuckold poetry.  And then there was the poem that made me cry the very first time read it.  And who can forget Shakespeare’s sonnets proving he was a pussy-whipped cuckold?

I kissed you.  It was very French.  Did you like it? 

I fell in love or lust  — or something in between —  over and over again …with Bitchy Jones  …with Supervert   …with Jerotic  …with Slip of a Girl  …with Sweat Shop Sissy  …with The Provocateur.

Did I say fair to middling?  On second thought, it was a simply lovely year.

xo, Angela 

Love Sonnet XI

by Pablo Neruda 

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

_____________________________________________

Many people tell me they just don't get poetry.  That it just takes too much work to understand.  I've never seen it that way and find poetry sometimes an even easier read than prose.  The above poem is an example of just how easy it can be.  A 1971 Nobel Prize winner for Literature, Chilean writer Pablo Neruda jumps hurdles of language, time, and even politics (he was a communist) to reach out and remind us that the truth of passion is timeless and constant.  Simply divine.

Learn more. 

Sixty Poems 

xo, Angela