This Is A Poem About Having Sexual Intercourse with Presidential Candidate Mitt Romney
He says thank you a lot. It’s kind of like
fucking a T-shirt. He says victory a lot.
It’s kinda nice when it’s done. You don’t
have to worry about your hair anymore.
He insists your hair looks good, even when
you’re at the peak of the sex act. He says
“sex act” a lot. He says it very diplomatically.
He won’t take off his tie. He says the tie
stays on. He looks good, with his clothes on;
it’s when they come off that you start craving
church. He’s not a good man, not a bad man.
He just is, there, in bed, a hint of sweat,
this inability to feel what it’s like to not be
on a two thousand dollar bed. He’s only slept
in absolute perfect comfort, the type of sleep
that they have in heaven. He’s only lived
in heaven, never experienced a blow job.
He won’t let me do that. He won’t let me do
anything where he says it will make him
forget about Jesus, even for a moment.
When he walks away, his ass looks like paper.
It looks like a prenuptial agreement. His ass
is thin-wooden and tired. It’s unemployed.
His ass doesn’t belong to him, a Martian’s.
His ass never talks to me. It just looks back,
like it’s ready to cry. I’m ready to cry.
When I cry it’s like stables are being opened.
He closes the door and I’m alone.
Sex With Obama
It happened in a garden. I’m not saying
there were stars and moons and suns.
In fact, it was just clouds, no sea breeze,
no fire, no swords. He whispered some-
thing about “fame” or maybe it was “flames”
or “rain.” I don’t know. There was sand
in my ear. He asked if his body had more peace
than pain. So sudden, I felt his heart—so sullen.
Nothing insouciant about him, fully there.
The sound of children nearby, somewhere.
Sex with Santorum
Holding Hands with Hillary
She says she’s too hurt to kiss, speaks in French
to tease me. I keep trying to get her to sit on the bed.
She keeps looking at the clock. Her flattering
charcoal pantsuit. I tell her this, but she cuts me off.
She’d make a good dominatrix, but she’s a Capitol
Hill Christian, the type I fall for every time. I can’t
believe how bad I want her. My heart feels like
it’s yelling in an amphitheater. God, her Yale Law
word choices get me in begging range. I want you,
Hillary, like a steeplechase. Worse. She smiles,
says she has to go, walks towards the door.
I grab her leg. She likes this. She likes this a lot.
—Ron Riekki, Negaunee, MI