Friends

Monroe was inside a portable toilet

his friends tipped over and rolled down a hill.

This is what friends are like, he thought,

as he tumbled and splashed amid the mess.

His pants were down and his own work present,

which he thought a cut above the rest,

though certainly not enough to enjoy.

This is what friends are like, he thought,

not realizing he was repeating himself,

And this is what I deserve, I suppose,

for being so perspicacious. 

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(An earlier poem with the same title may be required for this to make sense.)

Friends

Some of Monroe's friends are OK

but more are liars and liquid shits,

phonies and braggarts and surly cunts,

moochers, meaning to take advantage,

lowly, uncharitable pricks.

Not all of them, mind you, a few have virtues,

if you get out your magnifying glass and look, 

not between the lines, but beyond, way beyond.

Why does he keep them? you may ask.

The reason is simple: they like him.

They are so poor in human capital that,

unlike the world at large, they like him.

And if they’re that hard up, 

well, Jesus Christ!

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(And an earlier yet.)

Friends

One of my friends is this fine Persian,

with anthracite hair and eyes,

so many features in divine accord,

the constellation suggests godliness.

Also remark this grand Indian

with a voice like far-off thunder;

his gentle, even noble, demeanor

and dress suggest, to me, a saint.

Another good kind is African. Look.

(We are all Africans but these are the latest.)

One could easily imagine marrying one.

I have only a handful of these exotics;

the rest, as you see, are Occidental,

of miscellaneous ages, sizes

and handicaps, physical, mental.