Cursive is a dead art, like sex or poetry.
I said I wouldn’t write any more sex poems,
but I’m not writing about sex,
I’m writing about loneliness & the mortifying ordeal of being known.
It’s been five minutes & I haven’t fallen in love. New record.
How many vertebrae make a spine, & how many spines
make an archway to get married under?
I’ve been to enough weddings to know nothing.
I find my own pube on my desk, place it in my palm.
Miss getting them caught in my teeth.
The kind of intimacy you feel gross missing.
The flower & her vociferous bulb.
The finger & her many ways of entering.
I just wish I didn’t have such a hard time with this.
The protagonist’s lover is going to die in the next act,
but for now stays suspended
between the stage lights & the audience’s ignorance.
Velvet curtains fluttering like a wig.
The dust of a prop gun doubled over in the strobed air.
What’s behind Door Number One?
A sense of self, or a new car?
Trade for what’s behind Door Number Two,
which is of course the medication.
The meds say, breathe deeper. Say, welcome to your little corner of the world.
The medication trades an orgasm for a lack of suicidal ideation.
Who knew they were so connected?
Yes, my senses are cracked little eggs, but at least I’m alive.
Dolly says it takes a lot of money to look this cheap &, well, okay.