Jeffrey Zable

A WORTHY QUESTION

No, I really don’t know who has more orgasms-- homosexuals

or straight men. It’s definitely a worthy question, but I just

don’t have the answer to it. Besides that, I only have one

homosexual friend, and I never thought of asking him

what he thought. He doesn’t seem to be a promiscuous

guy to the best of my knowledge, but then what do we

really know about other people who we don’t live with!?

It’s possible that he could even be a confirmed masturbator.

I do live in San Francisco which has a large homosexual

population, but I have to admit—not being a homosexual—

I don’t frequent the scene very often. I guess that with

the divorce rate being so high among straight couples

there are a good deal of men going to prostitutes for their

orgasms while they go to bars, gyms, and music events

hoping to meet a single woman with whom they might be

able to start a relationship. With regard to what I’ve said here,

I guess it would behoove one to think in terms of a world

perspective, and certainly with regard to what is going on

where homosexuals and straight men mostly live. I have heard

that men in general like to have more orgasms where the climate

is warmer, but I don’t really know if warmer climates attract more

homosexuals or straight men. This would certainly necessitate

a good deal of research to acquire a definitive answer, which sounds

like a worthy PhD project for someone who’s so inclined. . .

MY PERSPECTIVE ON PSYCHOTHERAPISTS

Yes, I do think that psychotherapists should be paid

on a contingency basis just like a lot of lawyers these days

who only get paid if they win the case.

With regard to psychotherapists, I think that if the patient

expresses that they feel less depressed, anxious, and hopeless 

after a reasonable amount of time, then the psychotherapist 

should be paid, but the level of renumeration should be 

negotiated with regard to how much progress the patient 

made in a reasonable amount of time-- normally a year 

to two years.

If the patient is still basically in the same frame of mind

after this reasonable amount of time, but decides to continue 

with the same therapist temporarily they should not have

to pay anything while they search for another psychotherapist.

The one thing I firmly believe is that psychotherapists need

to be held accountable and not be paid such outrageous fees

before helping the patient improve their mental state.

They should have to produce positive results just like in other 

professions in which the worker is held responsible to meet

the bottom line. . .

                                NIBBLING

I was nibbling around the suicide cake when a little mouse

appeared out of nowhere. “How would you like to be me,”

it said in a squeaky, yet discernible voice, “alone, with no

prospect of ever having a brain that understands what life

is really about!?”

To which I responded, “If you think that understanding

leads to a happy, fulfilling existence you are sorely mistaken!”

And as it sat there pondering what I said, I went back

to nibbling around the suicide cake— feeling a bit of indigestion,

while becoming sadder and sadder as the day wore on. . .

RELIEVED TO BE BACK ON THE ROAD

She was cleaning the fangs of a baby

while I was trying to get some slop

into my gullywug.

I tried and tried— actually getting some

into my mouth—when the baby spit up

what was inside of it, and so I naturally

I did the same, both of us smiling

with our eyes like two peas in a rotten pod

that had known each other for an eternity.

After that, we fell to the floor and slept

until the host shook us awake:

told everyone it was time to leave,

which is exactly what we did,

one by one without saying a word,

shivering into the night,

yet relieved to be back on the road . . .

AS I REMEMBER IT

I’d hung my penis outside to dry, but when I came back it was gone.

Instead, there was a note from the society of platonic pornographers:

We’re taking it on the road, and before it wears out we’ll sell it

to be highest bidder to be used on what will eventually be called

television because people are starved for lowbrow comedy, especially

since the Marx Brothers are feuding and will soon go their separate ways.

And speaking of ways, I realized that just because I no longer had my

beloved member, I could still sing and dance, tell a good joke, and I was

a superb monologist when not on the bottle. I had plenty to live for

even though everywhere I looked there was war, famine, and bad blood

between raccoons, aardvarks, and spinsters.

Fortunately, I turned this all into a plus with an elixir that I accidently created

by mixing an array of soft drinks that when downed with at least 14 aspirins

turned a person into a loving representative of what humanity should be.

And as to myself, I never let on that I occasionally felt morose with regard

to what I had lost. I just kept that part hidden, and spoke through a megaphone

behind a curtain, somewhat like that old guy, The Wizard, who I’d met one night

while lost on the Yellow Brick Road. . .

IF YOU REALLY WANT TO KNOW

She was alluring in her time,

but when she went over the hill

she became quite a pill. . .

Still, I liked aspects of her personality

and the fact that she believed in herself—

at least on the outside. . .

She seemed to live on her own terms,

not really caring what others thought of her. . .

And because she’s still alive, I certainly

won’t speak of her as if she were dead. . .

Hell, I’m way deader that she is,

if you really want to know. . .

                                 THE PICTURE

         That’s how water travels down a broken spine!

was what I thought he said, but when I listened more closely

it turned out he was running for a government office, promising 

everyone there’d be a rabbit in every pot, which immediately

made me sad, as I pictured a poor rabbit squirming for its life,

trying to knock the lid off, while at the bottom it was getting

so hot that my clothes were sticking to my skin, making me

want to get back home and try to cut them off. . .  

Jeffrey Zable is a teacher, conga drummer/percussionist who plays for dance classes and rumbas around the San Francisco Bay Area, and a writer of poetry, flash-fiction, and non-fiction. He’s published five chapbooks and his writing has appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and anthologies, more recently in Fear of Monkeys, Linked Verse, Cacti Fur, Aether Avenue, and many others. . .