Eau de parfum
I judge it that your breath
is too close to mine and
your sweater is touching
the space where I could be.
Other people’s
eau de parfum.
I see you have dropped the small
packet of peanuts
onto the floor
of this airplane. You are not
picking it up and your shoes
are not laced the same way.
I wonder how you could not care
in the way that I do
that you don’t.
Retracting my tongue
as I lick my lips I figure
in an instant
that the flight I am on
will probably experience
turbulence
at which point
we will jiggle
like ballistic dummies
who would not survive the crash
at which point
this all becomes moot.
Pervert
My nose starts to bleed.
I ate three large pepperoni pizzas
for dinner. I ate seven
slices of prosciutto for breakfast. I know
Mother Mary is always with me.
I ate five cucumbers and dipped
them in ketchup. I voted for Justin Trudeau
four times. I put my milk in containers.
I buy all of the milk at the store
and poke holes in them,
hanging the bags off of my balcony
to feel like God. I do not eat brunches.
I cannot afford to pay
for my credit cards. The water in my apartment
tastes like pipes. I have
thirteen credit cards. I drink three sips
of my coffee before pouring it out
on the sidewalk. I purchased
one gram of LSD from Silk Road.
I have four felonies for driving under
the influence. I love going to the doctor. I love the way
a pussy feels. I have a big scar on my face.
Girls say that my penis is
big enough and that I am
good in bed. I can eat a girl
out for an hour straight. I take Klonopin.
Sometimes I take photographs of women
and post them on the internet. My friend
gave me a rosary with Jesus on the Cross.
I rub the beads when I get nervous.
I have voted for Justin Trudeau
eight times now. I eat boiled eggs with a little salt.
I torrent pornography
about schoolgirls and I masturbate
to it on my lunch break. I always use a VPN.
I have eaten six oranges
and it is not even eleven o’clock yet.
I go for walks at night and hope I get robbed.
I think about killing myself
because my family does not talk to me.
I watch documentaries about the Occult.
I think Beyoncé is in the Illuminati.
I am addicted to cocaine
and cannot get an erection anymore. I took
Adderall as a child and thought about breaking
off the tip of my pencil so I could sharpen it again.
My cousin touched me. I think I am
a pervert. I look
through the phone book and call
women and tell them how good I am
at cunnilingus. I am still trying
to find God. Father Davis says
there is always hope and that I will
find it in places where evil is not sanctioned. I think
I still believe him.
Diss Track
It is harder to find a poem to read
because of “society,” who makes the poem
pan-handle for his scraps for his Pulitzer
Prize who is our latest passenger but
the newest recent MFA in Creative Writing
from so-and-so State University. Poems go behind
the toy shelf and tampons and TVs.
They are necessary for modern life
like two-percent milk and sliced cheese
and a universal remote. “This poem
is dedicated to the brave Kurds
of Syria” but I can’t think of anyone
to read it to besides the Kurds.
All poems are alphabetically the last
item you find in the grocery store
behind Zebra Cakes and zucchinis.
A poem is a shameful thing that must
wash itself before coming over,
to whom you gift body spray and deodorant
at Christmastime.