996

LO, HOW DEPRESSED THESE SOURCES OF JOY

The look of concentration on the young witch’s face
Gives the dendrites on the left side of my head
A quarter, and I realize that I have mistaken all the phone booths
From Ninth Avenue to Rehoboth Beach
For my father. And now, with the shiver of a cold cold
Prose poem, I will lie down in bed, tracking
The passing redeyes and satellites
With the intensity of a high school student
Whose cock is different every time he fucks his sweetheart,
The one he is convinced he will marry and whose heart
He will be heartbroken to be forced to break,
I will imagine myself onto any and every flying object
On various important missions.