In the soft-core center
of the after-party glow,
I graze my tongue discreetly over my teeth.
I understand everything now,
but where do I go from here?
Clearly something is very wrong.
Perfection makes me dizzy, though,
so you can compare your apples to oranges
all you want so long as you remain master
of the big waxy ball in my head.
He’s a sucker for war, I always heard.
Jim, keep these postcards coming.
Maybe a pair of ours will meet over the
Texas desert and a little ray of hope
will—and this is where I turn to Kevin
for help—
maybe a little ray of hope will
arrive via a new Facebook app
and we’ll each meet two new friends
who’ll ease us into one or two in the morning
so we don’t find ourselves crushed
like a tube of Colgate.
Bright young mopheads with
exuberant vanity
who coax us unfurled into our beds
where we milk the death out of sex,
another morning’s addled rhythms
a few nerveless dreams away.
