It’s impossible to even see it.
But everything’s about it.
An hour of non-lunch.
Lost my me. Missing a butthole.
Might’ve been kissing a butthole
but everything’s lost outside
for an hour.
Tuna cheddar at noon. With
helicopters. Picking up
birthmarks on the
roadside.
Vintage sounds: buzz saws,
what used to be called a jukebox,
being lovely and sweet and feverish.
On loan to the KFC, I’m
impossible to fry. Impossible
to puke or to pluck. Envy
eyes atwitter scanning candy.
Eye candy here? Corn-on-the-cob
and cole slaw and biscuits
my pals from the netherland.
Am I remiss? I’m remiss.
And missing non-lunch
because I’ve been dating.
Of course he’s cut in two.
Legs. And thighs. Oh,
and two tattoos.
One his kissing lips.
And two his missing butthole.
It’s impossible to even see it
(whatever happened to CNN?).
But everything’s about it.
