The **** is
more expensive
here.

In conservation
I bathed in the sun
and danced around
a mushroom

to **** some time.

Well, what now?
What else is
there to do?

I could **** my
self, but then
I might die

I only listen
to K and J or
City pop
as of late.

I suppose even
the ears can change
its taste,

refine and become
a picky eater of what
it wants to ingest:

a palatable beat
with round sounding
words, the occasional english;

something lit,
a bop

I daydream:

which pieces of
cutlery you and I
could ever be.

A little spoon
bent at the neck
to a whim or will,

a parlor trick.

My muse:
where is all the
poetry on periods?

Where is the modern Shakespeare's
"Shall I compare thee to an
Always pad or Kotex?

So absorbent of my
love and ****** fluids."

What tender hands
and lovely finger pads
thumbing cloth and
phone screens:

If tender buttons can
be pushed through
a buttonhole then

a rigid zipper
might also
bend and sigh

Need a love language
be translated and transcribed
for the masses?

My heart warms
in the same fashion
as when it listens
to music,

From a source of
friction or energy,
not harsh like the sun:

I'm drawn to
the rhythm and space
up or down between
three or four and seven
or eight notes

I don't speak Korean
or Japanese but I
still like the music.

I whistle harmonies
and melodies to
fulfill the satisfaction
of resolved equations,

I can sing along if
given the words.

My heart sings in
the same fashion as
when it listens to music:

a sway, a pause and lull,
a yearning pulled to the surface,
a smiling utterance of sound.

A *** bubbles
up and under
the shaky lid
clamped shut.

As a child,
my mother would
chide me for

lifting the lid
of rice and
stirring too early.

I was letting
out all the
steam.

But the bubbles
sticky white and
bursting over begged

to be released.

For a time,
my body was
not my own.

I boiled,
simmered,
then cooled.

Lifted the lid,
scraped the sides,
and stirred.