Uplifting

On a crowded elevator, going up,
A girl stood next to me.
Now done with a run and dripping with sweat,
I probably smelled like pee.

It chanced on our rise, that the box emptied out,
So the two of us were alone.
I stepped away to pardon her nose
From my naturally scented cologne.

So I moved a few feet and apologized.
“Oh I can’t smell,” she said, unsure.
Then added, “Not now,” which was equally odd,
And I can’t say I understood her.

An awkward silence followed till
We reached her floor and said adieu.
I took this encounter as a welcome sign
That girls get flustered too.

I Hate Whitman

I dedicate this poem to Walt Whitman and his unique style; that is, tasteless, talentless, and totally terrible.

The dirt sinks lustily beneath my feet—
This ground is America!
I too am America and this ground is mine and I am this ground.

I see a bird above my head—
This bird is America!
And by the transitive property we can conclude that I am this bird.

A single branch hangs low from an evergreen tree
And blocks my path along the road
Two pine cones hang from the root of this branch
Like genitals swaying gently in the wind
I too am these genitals as surely as they are also America.