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"What I Must Convey to Mena Suvari"
by Jeph Johnson
Part of the problem
(I suppose)
is my inability to function
properly in her presence.
Usually calm
(and depressed),
I become a neon nitwit
regardless of her
comparative intellect;
gazing blankly past
any semblance
of truth her reality
may be emitting.
Confident smiles
(of bold lipstick)
sure blur the facts
when orbiting a
feeble-minded Venus
(not that she is).
But either generate virtually
the same awe;
brains (and
beauty) breezing by.
I pass judgements
like pageant ratings
(of the fairer sex)
for my vacuum eyes.
Nothing heightens
my senses greater
than the charming delight
of the poise-driven nymphette.
My brain basks
helplessly sprawled
on her sandy innocence.
While my senses submerge
in the depths of her curves,
my reason
(and reasons)
vanish into oblivion.
It's not even right
to require repute
beyond looking good.
Other endeavors
may be practiced
(or attributes praised
if she insists),
but cook
and clean
and commit
to labor?
Initiate, encourage and inspire
to ecstasy and elation,
I tell her.
