talking about – about the eyes. I said
‘burning’ and he shook his head,
but I think I get it. The long hours
of abuse. The unwillingness to
put on a pair of glasses, either of us.
Or better yet, shades. The eyes,
those pathways to the soul.
What corruption, what utter
turpitude we’ve unleashed
into the very guts of our brains
and the very moats of our hearts.
I might as well shrug my shoulders
and, oh what the heck, give my dick a
baloney sandwich and repair forthwith
to the basement to drool over an
Andromeda of jars filled with pickled
anatomy, choke out a joke or two
of prayer aimed at each suspended fetus
in lame hope that just one of them
might possess, loosely tethered
to its gelatinous spine, that very last,
oh so tiny figment of humanity I had
erstwhile proudly teased myself into
believing belonged to me, my singular
possession, to nourish and to cultivate
lovingly, to dote on its every whim,
only to throw it up at Starbucks
at half past nine this morning.
