I’ve already tried to romance you
with such- when Penthouse
takes over Hallmark - lines
as: Even if you were covered
in new-born calf-film, I’d
still lick you.
I’d walk over broken-glass,
barefooted, baby, to answer
your phone-call.
The Florida hard-on was
shoplifted from Fisher King.
You told me that.
But I haven’t said
the important things-
Like, each day I replay our
various moments- a parolee
who’s sleeping w/ the parole officer’s
sister- worrying,
stewing ulcers, Louis Armstrong
piano-string strangulations, that
I might’ve done
something wrong;
that this could be
our last night:
The freshly emancipated pooch
from the pound that squats
on the infant’s head.
Or that for several hours
a day- when I’m not distracted
by customers calling:
Do you have Remco tigers?
No.
(A grilled-steak pause.)
Are you sure?
Yes.
(Perch out of water for
3 minutes pause.)
Do you know what they are?
I’m hoping for telepathic advancement/
evolution - The Village of the Damned,
blond, mod-squadded kids to give
me their secrets,
their frontal-lobe talents-
So I can let you know
exactly how I feel
when my words fail
and turn into
Kamikaze fragments.