I pass from blueness
to language arterial enough
to erase my jeroboams—
I could have been a lawyer.
The garter on my voice
is there to hang my men from
doorknobs
and package the fucking Times.
Plastic rose, areola, peach-
fuzz, oh my,
a caress of sidewalk
ganglier than sex.
I’ve handkerchiefed a humming
so spiritual the windows
float away whenever
their sad tongues lick my nipples.
The dirty mantilla
of my smile in
the compact mirror
adheres to the disease
In my eyes. Eternity’s
one big fat cigar.
The toilet I sit on,
Zen, sucks shit.
