5
Exquisite dress—a skirt, no less, that you
keep tucked away in your imagination;
didn’t want to hear that, sorry, my boo,
if, overall, my condition’s my prescription
for what i think of both men and women
keeping me, then, to the grindstone.
What some might call an opium den
is just me connecting, love, to my phone.
eyes popping out of nowhere—ready to express their everlasting care, both if and when (you’ll see it my way, soon), you dial this in: sergeant beefcake here just returned from the gym—a place, nowadays, that I forbid.
and you my love-lace darling, vying for
His love, would seek to attract the modicum
that, for us, means a thousand units more
I change, for us, multiplication to a sum
equal parts of this American melting pot
But i have no time to spread myself around,
even if my queen, woman or man, is not
exactly the worst spot, here, on the ground
don’t diminish, friend, my lovelorn journey
trying, always, to screw what i can’t
until my assets, all over, began to freeze indefinitely, even when it’s just little old me, trying my best to do things gently, as best as possible for the both of us, which, i fear, means little to you and a lot to me
hungover? I haven’t been hungover or gone on a rant in over a decade—actually a couple years longer than that;
sticking, then, to my guns, that which amounts
to a whole lot of sunshine, freckles, friend
that want to speak and so their Jesus counts
the residue around the center we tend
driving His radius beyond comprehension.
I see 5D people getting smaller and smaller
as this our function closes in; the passion,
Lord, I pray for the passion—to be with her
the woman i consume. She’ll be free of this
one day—making puppy eyes at His loon,
can i ask this woman (AOC) for a kiss?
the answer is no, technically, it’s too soon
to go off on a tangent of impending doom
(some crazed friend with a baseball bat)
feeling the heat, and the attention, of the room.
You’re on a roll, fine woman, so yeah, be that
You’re job is more important than any of us.
cushy, cushy interior, manic? brain sets the pace—close in, my darling, on the curve, rolling, as you do, toward many a-one, savior to many, inspiration to some. don’t make me, in a fit of rage, scratch your name off my symphony—little anti-Napoleon that I indulge: you’ll hear me screaming soon enough, coming, then, to your window, like a total idiot.