Warning: This work has been rated 18+.
It’s been done before: cupped hands, one foot
in the door of the sushi house wondering how does a knife
get so sharp—
Blade that’ll unnerve
me right from my seat on the train.
That’ll teach me everything has in it a zenith:
a perfect bone to cleave unto.
I take off my red scarf and find
that it is basically just a bloody mess
that has been keeping me warm all this time.
Again someone cuts ahead of me
in line at the costume shop—
I don’t complain; anyway, goodness is paying
for the king kong suit of the woman behind you.
All the out of work auctioneers look up at me
as I leave the mall, ask me if I need a litany. They say,
Could this go on forever in a good way?
At some point, you must just have faith
that storm drains will get your trash to the sea.
I find my way home without being
anyone’s collateral damage. Anyone’s bailout.
Anyone’s catamite. The next day
fucking missionaries come pamphleteering me:
Inquiring, How lately, sweet brother, have you helped:
The poor in heart? The economy?