the girlfriend left me ’round noon
packed her tampons, her Sex Pistols
and her Jimmy Choos ’cause she couldn’t choose between
me & her narcissistic cat;
I was glad she was gone got tired of her hairballs
on to week 2 of being single and sexless in a city
populated by pussies & strays;
can’t hold a steady job
but I’m workin’ at a truck stop
binging on porn mags & 5¢ bubble gum
my subscription to YouTube is gettin’ ready to expire
met this lot lizard named something something
she said I was better than the scum prowling for prowl
said she wanted to become a nun
and start a coalition of ‘nuns with benefits’
for the priests the pope and the bishops
but she shunned on the idea when she realized
that she probably couldn’t wear lipstick
said she was a woman
who didn’t like working hard for her money
said that Donna Summer could kiss her ass
and wondered if she was still alive?
I thought the lizard lived in a trailer park
but she just wanted to swing by
and listen to the Gibbs with the squatters; she thought
Travolta was a Bee Gee & the dance floor an alien ship
she was such a fucking ditz, I was missing my ex
and her head trips
but she spun me dizzy, stuck a joint in my mouth
while she chewed birth control pills and spilled
every detail of her life on my lap – I had to tap out at 10
lights out at 12 but she started cleaning my house;
she was a trainwreck in a beehive hairdo
and I wondered if she was a product of a B52;
a love child from the love shack?
then we had sex, rug burn across the kitchen floor
her cunt felt like a good catch on a sunny day …
subscription renewed
I don’t ask for much
just a casual walk on these padded streets
in search of that
Great American Poem
at the bottom of a gutter
saturated with trash
that at one time used to be
someone else’s treasure
til they got evicted from their lives
you want to hold hands, you say
you said your palms
feel empty of weight and sweat
with those lifelines
posing like ulterior roads, and your soul
gridlocked on its highway –
I tell her to stop hitchhiking
I think my brain
is suffering from a 3rd degree burn
the lake looks unsavory
pleasant though as I contemplate suicide
with a drowning duck
but I’m too busy reading She Poems
wondering if I would find true love
at the end of a burning kitchen?
she wants to go home, and I don’t
care to walk her back – she gets up
from the bench and flips me the birdie
and I spit sunflower seeds at her hair
wondering if the sun will ever forgive me
for growing a garden on her head?
I feel an anxiety attack building
at the intersection of my conscience and poetry
because the pigeons have come by
for their tweakly visit
and just for a moment I actually contemplate on
tossing ’em crumbs of crystal rock
instead of my week old bread
because I, too, tend to forget that I’m starving
I mean, flying around the city
and splatting pigeon shit all over the place
isn’t exactly
creating masterpieces of art
worthy of someone’s hard earned bread
you still have to clean that crap up, and
I don’t see pigeons tossing me a crumb
for the effort
I starve the pigeons, take my bread home
and make me a bologna sandwich
BoySlut 