“Mr. Weiner has once again upended popular conceptions
about him, vaulting to the front of the race for mayor.”
--New York Times, July 9, 2013
“Man is the only animal that blushes. Or needs to.”
Weiner hopes so; he’s on top of a poll,
for mayor. Does victimless sin conflate
with time served to grant a type of parole?
Talking heads, in the past, his sins did bare
and hid their joy. For hot ratings, Weiner’s
folly was just the stuff they loved to air.
Forget policies, his misdemeanors
were desired: the wry dirt, the sexy tweets,
photos of bare chest and tumescent briefs.
For all the smoke, no fire, no dirty sheets;
it was a mating dance for all its grief,
a bunny hop of humiliation
for the cocksure. But Twain is not correct.
Like rutting sheep, the rep of the nation
banged his brain blue with no blush to detect.
Recall his nervous, callow demeanor.
When he bared all to the media crush,
remorse only left a sallow Weiner.
Foreplay, not shame, creates the rosy blush.
It can be light, even the slightest touch
can pink the cheeks of an Austen jeune fille
or it can be heavy, even too much,
Yeats’ laid back Leda in feathery glee.
The risk of exposure will not suffice.
Rumpole’s author knew he had to stick to
the law, but prized sex outdoors for that spice—
cold assets in flagrante delicto.
The need to record is poetic writ.
Anne Carson sings of her little behind,
red with desire, baboon-like, to do it,
finding her soul between bawdy and mind.
Buddha knew pain was rooted in desire,
we want and it hurts, it holds us in thrall,
but we need that rush of blood, that fire.
Unlike the beasts and man before the Fall
we know the grim dance that’s after the ball.