Neither the Sun-Times nor the Trib published any of J.J. Jameson’s poetry in their breaking stories about the Chicago poet who turned out to be a twenty-year double-murder fugitive.

It seems to me they missed the most intriguing angle of the story. Just what kind of poetry does a man write who pleaded guilty to one “execution-style” slaying and the murder of a jail guard and then disappeared for more than two decades?

This kind, courtesy of ChicagoPoetry.com, and proving to me again that life is so much richer than fiction.

The Puttering Penis

Las week, late last week,
I went to the theater to listen, raptly,
to the vagina monologuing.

I put my ear down close,
I mean really, really close,
I wanted to hear every spluttering syllable,
I wanted to bite very pulsating enunciation.

I put my other ear down,
I mean really, really down,
I did not wish to miss fondling, aurally,
any climatic sentence even a fragmented one,
preferably a compound one.

I strained so hard
I felt like Arnold Palmer
Aiming that dimpled ball
For that verdant pinhole
With an unsteady puttering penis.

Thence, it dawned, slowly on me.

I began to reflect:
How come it is that only
vagina’s can monologue?
Is it because they have lips?
Or is it because they have a lot to say?

All that poor old puttering penis
can do is bang that dimpled ball,
tweak it towards
that petard flapping pinhole
get down on his knees
pray for just the right arc
to curve over that lush velvet pube.

Howsomuchever, most importantly,
to be able to ace that hole
without being monolgued
about missing that hole in one.

I was spent, exhausted, flaccid.
Recovery required I heave the theater early.

I did so deflatedly,
puffed up my lungs and lit up a ciagarette
took an eviscerating drag,
rolled over,
put out that partially smoked cigarette,
and fell asleep promptly.

The vagina, the vagina is still monologuing.