1,151 Readings

Late Night Wives

 Nathan Ernest Burl Thomas Jr, aka Nathan E B Thomas Jr., date of birth 03-DEC-1952, born in Arkansas, uses the online dating sites to find vulnerable women!
His MODUS OPERANDI is always the same:



We coexist in a place without mandolins.
Twang happens only in the twilight of intention,
Half asleep before the wizard comes,

where we summon a lone voice,
harangue a victim of horror
who turned into an old guitar.

And ah: glitter recombobulates in long locks.
There is a child made of pyrite in my womb
Who kicks like an avalanche.

My lover crept in through the speakers
and I learned what an idea was.
We turn the inevitable into a game, Jupiter,
So that terror has a chaperone.

I see red presences on the kitchen table.
We love each other through pricks.
How many pricks make a castle?

How long does it take for pricks to make a cylinder,
Then a real house? I can sleep that long,
Laughter like a chinchilla’s feet in my heart.


Transfiguration sits on my lap in a pink box.
You too will change like sugar.

I think of your rough hat, its brim smelling of airplanes;
Your fieldlike face. That mace is not for us.

You burn my face in the name of approval.
My husband is an international businessman,

And my photo album is limp because we don’t need pictures
When we raise blood on each others’ chins,

when we eat such good frosting.


Nathan, I spin in the alcove.
See the muzzy old portrait
in front of Neuschwanstein Castle
Become alive like a costumed Mickey Mouse.
When he takes the white glove from the unity
For the sake of a slimy hand.
This is what we call lewdness.

What do you talk about
in the dugout of beloveds?
An amateur makes do with stats.
Bright, unproven things,
tetras gliding through the windows.
When we are married
you promise the aquarium
will prove the reality of its fish.

Buy me red stockings and my legs will resemble cayenne peppers.
I am the vertex of woman, food and late night;

My flagging eyes will spice themselves awake.
But I cannot be stuffed, I said. I am not that kind of pepper.

Drying tightens me. I wished I’d been an onion,
Made of teacups and imprecations, catching what you cry.

The watch is cracking; comfort me.
That is a secret like the rest;

That things crack, that you comfort me with pillows.
Lately I dream the pillows come from above.


Watch my Goldfinger skin unbreathing,
Decomposing into C++, watch
the long, tormented shadow of our ease.

I go to the flesh and blood department store.
where my dress falls apart like pot roast
for I am no nurse for fabric. I cannot hold your walker,

ankle-thin ghost, transparent waster.
He is waiting for me, waiting to give me sisters,
A life pushed through questions.

All I can say is, Give me love.
Don’t talk to my ex-wife, she’s crazy.
That’s all he says. All he says he can say.

There are good and bad airplanes.
No one learns the difference until too late.

I had a place in Richmond,
a wheelbarrow full of important books,

And an account at an attractive bank.
A body flew me back

Like an acceptance to the best university.
I felt high gloss, But I learned

there is no ninth Ivy League school. But
Sorcerer, you know I think the world of you.

I think the world is of you. An ampersand is a baby in the sand,
To say nothing of words, which are Red Barons.

The brooms are dancing now.
Let’s not forget that this movie ends with the devil.
Posted 12/12/10
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