Happy Hump Day! I can see the Second Coming
in faces of Frank on molded glasses. This, a dark
ruse, with rhetorical concern of high homosexual
fashion (think burning hundred dollar bills, tit-
clamps, tattoos on foreheads, exploding bottles
of Veuve Clicquot) and mushy faces of students
who need help with creative writing. Monday
mornings when all words are misrepresented.
Two loads of laundry keep you from sleeping
with him, no joke, bigger than the Yellow Pages;
but he let me borrow it anyway, all the way
thru next week with no intimacy in either
LA or San Diego. Tonight, bored with
simple potatoes, filled with Portugal
and mediocre screams. The ones
that sputter among the pierced
balconies and, indistinguishable
from the muffled crickets,
make their ways into
squadrons of white-
washed homes.
Horizonless.
