If Fine Tools Are Made Blunt

How you said "I can smell your acne face wash."
Well you smell like a pouf chav wearing Axe deodorant!

And your illiteracy was paramount
but for something like Niffeneger.

And you programmed the animotronic band for Chuck-E-Cheeses.
And you had theosophical parents who told you you were the last king of Atlantis.

(They actually did this!) How many demerits
would you get for doing drugs like this, and getting AIDS, and then the meth.

You were a mix of Keith Haring, Vincent Gallo, and Jesus,
eating a bit of holy bread here, committing some sort of digital suicide,

reconstructing a mix-tape playlist from a long forgotten lala profile
because it was deleted after confessing your love and trying to erase everything about you.

Your Office

Sugar, love, crevasse
my ass.

Whatevers
happening

around the
eyes,

maybe I've
just

grown accustomed to

your fucking fuck fuck fuck face
gravel around the mouth
pubis transparent with the inviolate opaque flecks of a pear's skin.

What the coinage did
what the ember did
what the visage did

what the nurnies and the greebles did
what the quite long wish list did
what the shiftless did

what the hard work and hard work and hard work and life of vacation on the board did
what the amory and feud with Christian Siriano's boyfriend did
what the lap did


Cornice and valance and mustache
Lapis
Horizontal stripes
Gingham and ghost gingham
k10k and Jason Kottke

Drawing in to the point that all that exists is the fun office, foosball tables sprewing forth Shasta Mountain Dew into river stone-strewn stream-beds made of polypropylene so that everyone in the office can have a drink.

Wholeness

Thank God nothing is wrong with my body
svelte as velveteen is,
capactive.

Snap Callahan who had the degenerative disorder was my lover.
He could totally get around, if hobbledly; wore the left outsoles right out.
Spent a lot on shoes. Spent a lot on shoes anyway.

James Agustus Blatt III had no thumbs, was my lover; was much harder.
He ate artichoke hearts and fed me olives with four fingers post-coitally until we were overlarge, greasy, smelling delicious.

Real Tenuous Living

Will end him with a baseball bat.
Will leap away crying that the last time a penis had been anywhere near there "it was rape."
Will keep up with what-if's at Isamu Noguchi.
Will not get anywhere.
Will not get anywhere.

•

Like Jim Gaffigan in Les Miserables or something like that.

•

Will raise a horny chill down upon the S curve that is the back bone.

•

Is a growing-older man who does not know the difference, will not cooperate, is made of pomegranate juice concentrate, is wearing two tee shirts that are strangely layered as if both neck holes are straining for the opposite shoulder

and the gold shoes are not working, and the black Doc Martin boots are not working, and the acid washed jeans are nearly white and not working

and the lights are not working, and the like is not working.