The Illiterati

Confusion is their color, shades of gray
Surround all acts, like ripples in a pond;
They stay away from definitions—they
Make such demanding wives. Black and blond,

Or bald, or clown-like, frizzy Marxist red,
Their heads are full of slogans: War is bad,
Love good, but Sex is better. Come to bed.
Come now. Come fuck a real creative lad.

No answer. Why? For someone with so much
Love to give, rejection seems unfair.
I touch you and so little seems to gush
From you but your intestines. Sad. We share

So much in common—dreams and DNA.
The difference is just poetry, I’d say.