(an earlier version of this persona poem was written for S.W.A.P. 2012 following the sex scandal involving 13 agents in Cartagena, Columbia)
I’ve seen three wars
and been on the force for four.
I’ve been inside stores
on boardroom floors
and guarded scores of A-list celebs,
top-models and business
heads.
I’ve also held court
with key members
of the CIA and FEDS.
I’ve seen thousands die
from where I’ve been stationed
all from inside the cabinet
during both the Clinton and Bush Administrations.
Somehow I made it out alive
where I’ve been appointed
to a prominent position
within homeland security’s
Latex Division.
After all these years
I can’t help but believe
that I’ve somehow earned this –
to become part of the
Victoria’s Secret Service.
I’ve taken a special oath
to serve and protect
the erect.
Sure it’s a…hard job,
and you can get lots of heat
But I’m good at what I do,
especially
when balls are to the wall,
even though on most assignments,
I don’t get used at all.
Still, there can be
a great deal of pressure,
affairs happen,
husbands and wives get hurt,
they shout and swear,
most people tell me
they feel better
without me even there.
We’re often ridiculed
for taking the lives
of so many innocents
which I think depends on
when you consider life begins
cuz it’s really up to me
who sinks or swims.
When all’s said and done
I’ve seen far too many
dead presidents
and could certainly do
without another one.
When I’m on the job
you can take a load off.
Come inside. You’ll be safe…
with me.
Well 98.9% safe,
but that’s still pretty good, right?
I mean there’s always a chance
that some crazy
has poked a hole
in the very fabric of our security
leaving a potential target
exposed and vulnerable
to only god knows what
or
without thinking
one of us slips off
after a night of hard partying
and heavy drinking.
But I don’t do that sort of thing.
I take my job very seriously.
All jobs. Except maybe hand jobs.
Yeah, on hand jobs I’m pretty lax.
Blow jobs too. No. No, y’know
it depends.
But in the end
(especially in the end)
I’m top shelf—
I work hard
and then slightly less hard
and try to keep to myself.
I see and hear it all—
the unzipped fly on the wall,
the birthday swim-suit,
the STD-DDT in full supply.
Actually, many of my closest friends have lived pretty high-class lives,
up to this point
far more exciting than mine.
I mean these guys have seen
Tiger Woods stroke his clubs
from the back nine
in more than one hole at once…
on more than one hole in one…
on more than one occasion.
And they’ve seen guys like
Eliot Spitzer, Marv Albert,
Anthony Weiner
and Charlie Sheen
do some pretty freaky shit.
Usually,
we’re just used and discarded,
but last night I caught wind of something big. Real big.
I mean
I got North Korean launch codes, vital location information
for Trump visits into Russia,
and covfefe strategies
for the next two elections.
In addition to a few goos,
gahs and giggity giggity giggities,
I was privy to
who’s next on the dictator hit list,
where we’re hiding UFOS,
IPOS and LMFAOS.
Hell, I even witnessed
a 30 dollar transaction
for services worth close to 875.
And after tonight
I know what it means
to be undercover under covers,
how size doesn’t really matter,
and not who shot JFK, but rather
who JFK shot…his final load on.
Anyway, too bad I’m lying here
in this hotel trash can
next to some cashew shells
and a half-eaten bag of cheetos.
Because only now do I realize
on the heels of this here
new health bill
how important it will be
coming forward
to use me
and or some helpful pill or IUD.
Or one of my closest associates
from here on in,
whenever moving fluids
and sharing skin.
Look,
the last thing I witnessed
was an orgasm. So I’m good –
with nothing more to lose.
But this ADmin’s
Robbin’ Planned ParentHood
giving to the rich
and taking away rights to choose.
To die, to sleep.
To sleep — perchance to dream:
ay,
there’s the rub
and the rubber is I,
for in this sheath of death
what dreams of cum
When we have shaken off
this mortal raincoat,
I am flung.
And there’s the last erection
that makes calamity
of so short a life;
For who would bear
the whips and scorns
of some sadomasochist’s safety pin,
The professor’s thong, the uncircumcised man’s foreskin,
The pangs of unloved glove,
the law’s last d-lay,
The insolence of not offering and the burning sensation to follow,
that impatience of packaging
before entering this churning,
salacious hollow.
When he himself might make love
without lambskin
who’s raw package could bear,
to grunt and sweat
risking yet another unwanted life
to spare.
But that the dread of worms in file breaking through the eggy glint
is halted by my spermicidal lubricant.
metaphorcasts 