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.
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
at which point
we will jiggle
like ballistic dummies
who would not survive the crash
at which point
this all becomes moot.
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.
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