Barry Blumenfeld

Minotaur Speaks
To The Virgins

I think I know how you
Imagined me: the crag
Of my shoulders, the broad
Beam of my questing, death-
Tipped horns, etc.
A catalogue of
Phalluses in all sorts
Of disguise, shagged in a mat
Of stinking, sexy fur.
Good. It's good to be
Admired. But today's a
Business day; realism's
The order of it. Your
Illusions were shorn, no
Doubt, at the puzzle's gate.
The sea bore rumors of
My smell and beauty and
Fell embrace to your is-
Lands, and that was a thrill,
I suspect. But you see,
Now, how things stand. (I'd spread
My hands, at this point in
My welcome, if I had
Hands.) My abattoir don't
Run like that; my fabled
Loins hide behind this here
Apron. Look. Rose light stains
Those gore-streaked labyrinth walls.
It's the sun. Last one for
Y'all.

03-04/

Barry Blumenfeld lives in Minneapolis. His poems have recently appeared on the web in Exquisite Corpse, Milk, and Poor Mojo's Almanac(k). He dropped out of the University of Arizona MFA program, but he had a fine time there. "Blumenfeld" is a pen name. email: B.Blumenfeld

06-04/