SATURDAY EVENING SERVICE @ C.T.K.

I dropped the Bread of Life
The Monsignor picked it up,
Placed it back on his tray
Said calmly, quietly, “it's okay.”

He placed another piece,
Looking identical to me,
Continued on with the gathering
As if nothing amiss had happened.

Sunday Mass is tomorrow.
What will the end results be then?!?
My prayer's beg for a kind appearing
Turmoil.
   
           Scott Thornhill

WHY I DON'T FLOSS MY TEETH

No, I didn't enjoy it, but . . .

I'll happily do it again, and again.
I just can't say no.
I often wonder if her husband knows
what she does to me at work.
Allow me to describe for him (and her)
and myself
My obsession.

Six or eight months ago
I was, so expertly, delightfully . . . cheated,
left hungry for more
hours more,
A masochist would appreciate this.

She began emotionless, with a 10mm probe
and a foot or two of dental floss
the unwaxed kind.
I braced for the intense discomfort,
usually a significant part of these
encounters.
She used my own cheek to steady her weapon,
Then heartlessly sunk the unwelcome thing
down to “seven with bleeding”.

The pain, however was nondescript,
in fact . . . it went nearly unnoticed.
Her own brand of anesthesia . . .
TOTAL COMPLETE DISTRACTION
had taken over at twelve inches.
The perfect distance needed to mentally sketch
. . . to study
the subtle lines and enticing contours of
her wonderfully, not quite closed, thin,
exquisitely provocative . . . and most probably
DELICIOUS lips!

A veritable fantasy . . .
perpetually poised for an erotic kiss . . .
only a foot away . . .
Rinse! . . . and she was finished . . . NEXT!

She says if I don't start flossing,
she's going to have to spend more time with me.


           Scott Thornhill

HOPEFUL ROMANTIC

I read your letter to me again tonight.

All the words written . . . but mostly
those unwritten, between . . . and after . . .
Again

I checked the mailbox (twice) again today
and again, considered a keen mystery. . .
Your words may
mask, – unspoken, shy affection –
just encode a simple hint, meant only to
encourage this . . . romantic or worse . . .
conceal nothing.

The mystery's end reads all too clear, now in kind . . .
Because in fairness to the shy,
the simple lack of a sequel reveals some
overanxious improvisation . . .
on the part of this, hopeless, romantic's
hopeful mind.

          Scott Thornhill

WHUT AM I POSTA DU?

 

Evree time I seee ya

I get stoopidd!!

I ferrgett hou to rite.

Spellen, ferrgett itt!!

I sstartt sttudd-udd-uddurrenn.

Itts gotta bee mi faaultt.

I juss donoo hou to fiksitt.

I waantt ya tu thennk Imm kooll

Onn akkowntt ah yurr perrtee!!!!

Ann smmaartt !!!!

Ann uuuhh. . . .

Inn cummpleett kunntroll!!!!

Howw du ya do itt???

Lemmee kno summtiime

Yu mite liike mee

Iff I kenn fiigurre it owwt

Maabee thenn wee kann ssmooochhh!!!!!

Thenn I wonnt sttudd-udd-uddurr

Probblee onn akowntt ah I 

wontt bee aible tu tokk!!

Scott Thornhill

SAD OLD LOVE SONGS

All those old love songs
they keep playing on the radio,
All the mournful ones
about My Baby Done Left Me,
She Don't Love Me Anymore,
I'm All Alone Now,
all that sad stuff.

Why do they keep playing
all those songs?
They play them for me.
They're all crap
unless they're for you.
Then they are the saddest 
truest things in the world.

All those sad old love songs.
They know just how I feel.

            G.W. Bill Miller