Zen of the Growler Daddy
by Jack Fritscher
Five or six times a day I strip myself bare naked
to check if under my cruising clothes
I’m still in one piece, pulling on/off
socks & jocks
shirts & shorts
leather & Levi’s
boots & suits & ties.
Located mainly in my head,
on top the clothes pile,
I unclench my fuckfist to make a hard hand
to oil my hairy
belly & balls
pecs & pecker
thighs & feet & ass.
I check with good reason:
once when I was a cub,
some cannibal doctor took my tonsils,
but he can keep the fuck his rubber gloves
off my goddam foreskin.
And off my bearded scruffy head: through it
I breathe think taste talk rim hear see
smoke lick eat and suck.
My head suffers no failure of perversatility.
For instance, bear boys, you hire me
to suck your hairy pecs
to strike wooden matches
to light my cigar
to blow them out
to lay the hot sulphur
on your spit-wet nipples
to hear the steam pop
to hear you scream.
I know you’re in there somewhere
inside your flannel clothes
inside your leather clothes
inside your jock clothes
inside your burning body
inside your fantasizing head
inside the hundred bucks you pay me.
Man: I laughed
the day I found out
you and I were the people
we’d been warned about.