Free Pot! Poem: "His Preferences"

Why is the first movement of Brahms' first symphony so unsure of itself, seeking, trying, thirsting for a melody but always avoiding it, unlike the fourth movement. It's what I'm listening to as I write this. He's my favorite composer.

Jeez. Much to say, so little time. Due to sleep deprivation the night before last, my mood has temporarily improved. The literature claims sleep deprivation gives only a short term boost but I know no study that tested it while the patient's medications were maximized. Speaking of medications, we have no insurance and must pay cash for them just to stay within barking distance of the light near the top of the pit.

Two characters I met yesterday were preminently hootable. One, "half" Hopi Indian, told me his frizzy hair was typical of the Hopis. He also told me about peyote ceremonies and how he had seen angels twice. "Tall men in white, glowing, with large wings--I saw three when my mom recovered from her cancer." Who am I to doubt him?

Another fellow was a grower and seller of marijuana who proudly informed me that in this county each resident was allowed 2 lbs. of pot for personal use and a garden of cannibis no larger than 10' by 10' or 25 plants. He has his plants, "Romuluns and Monkey Balls," in 25 gallon containers so he can move them to the legal square footage if need be.

I asked this character how much an ounce of pot would sell for in his town, rumored to be the hub of our county's herb business, and he laughed. "You couldn't buy it. There's too many people growing it. Someone would give you an ounce. I would." He also said that 90% of our crop gets shipped to Washington and New York, almost none to LA.

Harrumph! Now that I'm past fifty and have lost my youthful infatuation with herb, I can get it free else grow it legally. Thankfully I have enough tomatoes and cucumbers to keep me busy, not to mention the marigolds and nasturtiums.

And thank you, Sam Rasnake, for being the first member of the Chaffin Cargo Cult Club. Soon your pin and T-shirt will arrive. Meanwhile you are honorary president of the cult unless Annette Funicello gets out of her wheelchair. What a babe she was! I've always preferred brunettes.

Preferred. Hmmmm... How about a poem that may piss off feminists? As if I care (though that's not why I wrote it). Listen to the voice of the poem. It is not that of Craig Erick, rather some haughty nobleman. It is not misogynistic but what in many cultures would be called traditional. And the speaker is not as bad a fellow as in Browning's "My Last Duchess."


His Preferences

When walking bow your shoulders back
to lift your breasts and steel your lower spine
to cinch your waist, but relax your ass,
let cheeks bob on femurs like carousel horses
and let your toes land first to swing
your strong legs forward weightlessly.

In dress I favor solids or fine prints
so not to distract from your own coloring.
Jeans are good, tight though not uncomfortable,
in blue or black; avoid white, I think it
pretentious and impractical while you are not.

When dressing or undressing in my presence,
do it self-consciously like Botticelli's Venus
who shielded her mons with hair of gold
and partly hid her breasts with the other arm.

If we should kiss while standing,
put your nipples lightly to my chest
so I can feel them stiffen, but wrap
your hips close to feel my need--
and please, try not to cry during sex.


I'm calling myself rodent neutral today.

Let's see if the sleep deprivation has a longer effect.


Thine in kilorats or kilobunnies,

C. E. Chaffin