Friday, January 2, 2009

the sober man often mistakes holding a woman’s hair while she vomits as romantic.

how many gas station bathrooms along this country’s highway system have i not bought french ticklers or bubble-gum-flavored condoms in for want of 3 quarters and someone who wants me

how long must one stare at the alien surface of shaved genitals before the first kiss can no longer be remembered as a sticky piece of candy, picked off the floor and eaten when everyone had left the room

who isn’t affected

we make love at arm’s length
in the direction of jerusalem
with our shoes on and alarms set.

a soul and a soul never quite touch;
they are the wrong sides of two magnets,
they are the hands of a clock.

this morning, i left the shower on.
the drain is clogged with hair and cum
and my bathtub runneth over,

flooding my house with more
things i can’t breathe.

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