“Tales of the 10th Commandment” by Alexis Rhone Fancher

At 17 she
jumped on the
back of a
smiled for the
journalist &
flash! sheʼs on the
cover of Newsweek.

So jealous.

Parlayed that into a
role on a hit
sitcom about a
mid-west radio station,
where she
met the sexy
TV star
who divorced his wife/left his
for her.
Talk about a run of luck!

Fast-forward to 2007,
when he left her for that
singer & the cops found her
crazy-naked in the

So not jealous.

Photo & Poem by

– Alexis Rhone Fancher

© 2011

“LET’S BE HAPPY NOW!” by Alexis Rhone Fancher

Danny looks at me, the way
they all do:
lust-eyes. He waylays me in the
bathroom, hairy arms suddenly
around my waist.
“I heard U fucking Mickey last night,”
he says, “heard U cry out,
& no, no
it wasnʼt a cat but it yowled,
U yowled and my dick got hard, baby.
U know U want it. Deny it & Iʼll call U a
fucking liar.
I donʼt care who we hurt!
Letʼs be happy now!”
I confess,
his recklessness holds a certain allure,
& then Iʼm fuckinʼ him real high &
hard, up against the sink in the
bathroom, with his soon-to-be
wife just outside,
ear pressed against the door.
Not the marrying kind.
Iʼm the fucking kind.
The lewd lingerie kind.
The girl you
bring home for the
not to meet the family
The dirty little secret,
the girl you jack off to after your
goes to sleep.
The one you think about
so you can get it up with the
old lady,
year after year,
decade after dreary
decade. The one you wish youʼd married
& youʼd be happy now,
happy now, so very happy,
© 2010

“ALLISON L.” by Alexis Rhone Fancher

She has a mole
on her
lower back.
I’d glimpse it
when she’d
bend over
or squat down.
She has agile knees.
Great tits.
A perfect piece of ass.

When I saw the mole
it was exciting,
a dark secret,
a sneak peek at
it made me wet,
& I’d kiss it
with my eyes.

When we were
I did more
than that.
Lots more.

She told me she
liked it.
Till she didn’t.
Till she left me.
Till she kicked me to
the curb.

Her small, black
blends into night,
swallows her up;
a rodent is how
I imagine her
A mole.

O! Allison,
Tell me why?
I am left
in the dark
I’m looking, but
I can’t find
all my pieces.

Photo & Poem by -Alexis Rhone Fancher

From her new book “EXPLICIT”

© 2010

“BLACKBERRY HAIKU” by Alexis Rhone Fancher (Happy Birthday Alexis!!)

For Fancher
It was a hot day
I ate the cold blackberries.
you slept through it all.
I was hung over.
just a minor case of spins.
it fucked up my day.
you went bike riding.
then you came back here to sleep.
the berries beckoned.
I was working hard
& I stayed behind & wrote
hungover writing.
I’d suck you off if
you were wide awake right now
instead of sleeping.
I eat while you sleep.
Crime of opportunity.
I’d do it again.
I confess, okay?
I ate all the blackberries
& then you woke up.
All Rights Reserved
© 2010

“MARRIAGE, SOMETIMES” by Alexis Rhone Fancher

I was pouring my heart out
to him in the
kitchen when his
iPhone rang.
he answered it
without thinking.
he was:
a. so secure in our deep, abiding love that he already knew all that mushy
stuff and found my verbal vulnerability redundant. or
b. he was preoccupied, as usual. or
c. he wasn’t listening in the first place; I mean my lips moved but
the sound was on
choose one, please.

Alexis Rhone Fancher


“This Life” by Jack Grapes

Photo by Alexis Rhone Fancher

My wife is getting dressed,

rushing off to see her clients.

She puts a top on that comes down past her navel,

barely covering her pubic hair.

But when she sits on the bed to pull up socks,

the chemise rises up, exposing hair between her legs.

She puts one leg up, resting her heel on the bed’s edge.

Her legs a few inches apart.

Her pubic hair and mound clearly visible.

It’s enough.

This altar. This sacred, secret, sanctified,


I stop by the TV and ask her

when she’s coming home,

do I pick up Josh today,

are we going to David & Gina’s for dinner on Saturday,

should I get bread and milk at J-Market

or what?

“What,” she says.

I’m talking, she’s got her head down working on the sock,

no, I think it’s panty hose or tights,

something like that,

something complicated that requires her full attention

I’m talking but I’m really looking at her pubic hair, her sacred

whatchamacallit, that is . . . . and is not . . . . her,

the embodiment of everything,

the symbol of nothing but itself.

This is when . . . . I think . . . . maybe not . . . . but probably so.

this is when I love her the most,

when she’s putting on socks, half-naked,

paying little attention to me.

“What?” she says.

She’s not even listening to me.

“Should I pick up Josh,” I say,

“and what about the bread and milk?”

Actually, I’m not really talking to her, either.

I’m looking at her pussy

while she struggles with this complicated long sock or something,

her head down, working it fold by fold past her heel

and ankle, then up the calf, over the knee,

up the thigh, finally standing

and jumping up and down, small little jumps,

as she tugs the last part above her pubic hair,

above the navel.

She rims the elastic with her thumb,

gives it a snap, then looks up at me,

finally. She gives her head a shake,

straightening her hair for her clients,

getting all neat and composed and psychotherapeutic,

her sacred whatchamacallit covered by a gauze curtain,

and in a minute, by the dress.

I’m looking at her,

thinking of that Grecian pottery

where Aphrodite rises from the sea,

her sandstone naked body

gravely and glistening in its classical flesh.

“What?” she asks.

“Do I pick up Josh today?”

“Yeah. Is that okay?”


We stand there, holding everything

unsaid that seems to float along with the dust motes

made visible finally by the first light of the morning

coming through the blinds.

When you coming home?” I ask.


“Don’t forget my class starts at 7.”

“I won’t.”

Then she’s off, rushing from one room to another,

grabbing necessities.

I catch up to her at the door.

She kisses me.

I kiss her back. A little piece of sweet lip

in her sweet breath. I keep my eyes open

so I can see her face close-up.

“Love you,” I say.

“Love you, too.”

I stand on the front steps and watch her

get in the car, buckle-up, start the engine,

make a U-turn and come to a stop at the stop sign

at our corner. I walk to the mailbox

on the corner and give a little wave.

She sees and waves back,

then pushes off for her day, her clients.

I have things to do, too.

Have to xerox poems for my students, my fellow poets.

The sun’s not out yet; by noon, the clouds’ll break,

and it’ll be a sunny day,

and the sun will shine

on my wife and on my students

and on this blessed, sacred, sanctified life.

Jack Grapes

© 2010

“This Is Not A Poem” by Alexis Rhone Fancher

Alexis Rhone Fancher

This is not a poem. Bam! This is an assault to your senses, a rape of your status quo. This is not a poem, not some trendy leopard print, not a polka dot parade. No. You do not smell hot dogs, cotton candy or frankincense. The myrrh has left the building. This is not a poem. It’s an anthem, a declaration of noncompliance, a liberation proclamation. Snap! Snap! This is not a poem. It’s a love song a torch song a song of myself and not you, you’re not worth it. No tears, got it? Don’t act like a girl. Blow your nose, wipe your eyes. Don’t make yourself look stupid! This is not a poem. It’s salt poured on the wound. Can it feel? Only if I let it burn too deeply. This is not a poem. No! It isn’t good enough. No. I’ve read poems & it’s not the same. Snap! Snap! This is not a poem. It’s a hip hop of my own creation, a celebration of my brains, my breasts, my underground caverns. This is not a poem. It’s a rite of passage, a starry night, a reluctant homage to your name, spelled out in lonely Broadway lights. My life goes dark without you, honey. Clap! Clap! This is not a poem. You with your lust, with your X-ray eyes. Listen up now. Be careful how you love me, grateful for second chances. Don’t push too hard. I might surprise you, you’ll see I’m tougher than I look; I eat Bukowski for breakfast.

Alexis Rhone Fancher

All Rights Reserved

© 2009