Next

I walked outside and it was warm, and tack, and I knew it was Her. There were kids insteppin soccer balls and ugly birds calling and my forehead felt like baconsponge, the shirt stuck to my back like baconsponge too.
Of all those things remembered was that photo on my parents' bookshelf, that big huge photo like a black and white beacon- what it means to be twentyone and not know what you're holding- most just hold their pudd and bark a lot. There was another photo too, She took it of me tumbling on a lawn; the burrito shop and bookstore and those big old funky trees.
This ain't worth all that I say it is- its gone for good now- that's its charm.
There was a time we both awoke in middling night and made love without a word-slow and easy- Do you see?
That isn't even me. This isn't ME.
I still worried after recycling, then. After carbon footprint, endangered freerange sprouted hamburgers. And now I walk outside some sort of Man that I've become- I fight and crackSmack jokes and fuck and don't much ever 'make love.' Haven't made it that far in years. I'm ManChild, Kan would say- I'm walking on my castoff selves and swaggering a bit- well, Shit.
You can't believe forever.
I walk outside Some sort of Man and know it was Her (Tripe) and let that sink (Stink), because she told me how things went. It isn't how I remember them. Some precious girl is falling for me now, and I am useless to her. I should drive the beast away. She's too sweet for me. Its meanness that I need.
This sort of talk is toxic, push a fist back through your throat and you will catch just what I mean, I'm cruising for that now- some Tom Dick or Harry wants to meet my horned eye.

And there were buds- lolling phallic newgrowth Life on every branch, the poet said.
They promised all the ruin yet to come.
Some kind of Man stood, and took the pen, and drove it through the poet's hand.
'There's life,' he says. 'Your allegory, arched wit, lifeless melancholy Twit- There is Life.'
The poet squeaked and ran out all over his watermarked pages,
Ichor, Bristle, Bled.
'Fuck, feel it,' said Some kind of Man. 'You're making pretty structures of it in your mind. Feel it, let your dick get hard, its worth no more than what it is: A shitty turn. Stop building palaces from it, fuck!'
The poet might just turn his head and swallow Some sort of Man whole; whole as walnuts, whole as melancholy whining cunts. He might listen, too. He might, at that. Might.