Monday, April 5, 2010


The Thai curry that a friend made for us the other night
was so Scoville hot we literally couldn't eat it.
I went cross-eyed, I was willing to grab my tongue
to pull it out from the roots if I thought that would help.
Leah says, Here eat the cucumbers. That will cool your mouth.
I eat all mine, and bolt down her bowlful too.
Neil's already finished his, so I swig the dressing.
I'm choking on the heat, tearing up, gasping for breath,
and then Neil begins discussing the effects
of burn a deux: exiting hotsauce & curry on his asshole
at the dinner table and I'm truly mortified
by the thought of flaming "O"s. Besides,
the 'roids are acting up again and that makes for heat.
I used to laugh with the doughnut pillow folks
until I joined the dubious pillow league. I stand up a lot.
It's not something that you discuss in intimate, or polite circles.
They really ought to sell Preparation H in plain wrappers.
I mean, you get up to the checkstand and the clerk
asks for a price check over the loudspeaker—
Heads swivel and soon the entire store is privvy to the fact
that you're having an intimate relationship with your rear end.
Reminds me of the story of big time Hollywood actors
who used Big H creme to reduce the bags under their eyes
from too much alcohol abuse the night before.
Like Norma's famous line in Sunset Bulevard:
All right, I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.
Neil says, You really don't know someone well
until you've seen their asshole. TMI, I shout. TMI!
Besides, there are children present. At that moment.
as if on cue, the cats perched on the couch
hoist their hind legs daintily into the air
and give their bottoms a thorough going over.
Urg. Though I admire their poise and dexterity
and the way they have of leveling the field
by making all intimate acts ordinary and public,
dogs are even worse, the way they noisily get down to it
making themselves into crude Rodinesque sculptures on the rug,
licking their balls when the conversations settles down.
Everybody ignores them, averts their eyes,
and pretends to be preoccupied with something else
far more interesting than elephants in the living room
when his little pink lipstick happily swizzles out of its sheath.
But you really don't want them to lick you afterwards.
Then there's the hound who noisily plants his nose
deep into your crotch when you're at your most vulnerable.
Someone helps with introductions: I'd like you to meet so-and-so…
and the damned dog is snuffling at you like a prize trufflehound.
You try and bat his head away, but he's persistent
and the owner casts a blind eye, saying something trite
like: Aww, he really likes you. And you try pinching his ears
to deter him, since lifting a quick leg to his chest
will only serve as an enticement for deeper rotor-rooter work.
He yelps like a tattletale playground fink,
the owner frowns and clocks you suspiciously
wondering of you're some kind of pervert or worse, a dog-hater,
and wonders whether or not he can trust you with the job.
And all you can think of is: Thank God there's no puppy
having a go at your ankles.

write a TMI poem (or too much information poem). As with all prompts, there are a number of ways to come at this one. You can make it about gossip or revealing too much personal information. You could write an information overload poem. Or...well, I'm interested to see what everyone produces.

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