I told my mom that I have a:
I have a corduroy hemorrhoid.
       She said that doesn't make any sense.
       What are you confused about?
       Corduroy? Hemorrhoid?
       You know, just because things rhyme doesn't necessarily mean
They Have To Jive.
I know. I said I HAVE A CORDUROY HEMORRHOID!
       I don't care about your Cor-Dur-Oy
                                                Hem-orr-hoid.
  ­     Only that bear called Corduroy could possibly have a
                               corduroy
                            hemorrhoid.
       Anyways, like I just said
       they barely even rhyme. So who really cares?  
CORDUROY
and
HEMORRHOID.
       Stop with the poetry nonsense.
Okay. But seriously, I have a corduroy hemorrhoid.
       Who made you like this?
corduroyhemorrhoidcorduroyhemorrhoidcorduroyhemorrhoidcorduroyhe­morrhoidcorduroyhemorrhoidcorduroyhemorrhoidcorduroyhemorrhoidcor­duroyhemorrhoidcorduroyhemorrhoidcorduroyhemorrh
       You better stop. I'm ignoring you.  
       Oh, ****. You're late to school.
I can't go to school because--
       You have a corduroy hemorrhoid.
Yes, that's right.
       Okay. Whatever. That's fine.
       How would you even fix a corduroy hemorrhoid?
I don't know. I'm the one who is sick.
       Oh, true.
Yeah, with a corduroy hemorrhoid.
       Please.
No, I really am sick.
       Well there isn't anything to fix!
Probably
I think I will just need a
nap.
       God, you always make Tuesday's such crap.

Narragansett Bay,
July.
Probably 2005.
Flowers larger than her head,
their meat pushing
up from the depths of the green,
housing rabbits, sparrows, small
salamanders.
A small girl
maybe seven if the math is right,
buried deep in the dirt, searching
for sand
from the strip of the
Narragansett beach
probably in July, the year
most likely 2005.
A New England Paradise:
July in 2005, all skin, all bones, all relishing
the warmth of the sun, her easy connotations of the familiar word: "brown."
Brown house, brown sand, brown dog, brown, the easy color
"brown."
A composite,
a mix of The Narragansett Bay set somewhere throughout
A July, the year of
2005.

It's been seven months since I have last heard your voice,
your soft ticking; your pacing; the click of your mouse;
the way your mouth pressed
on the cigarette, pushing air out;
your descriptions of the moon: complementary and rotund;
the way your buttons popped off, ripped not undone;
the praise for your mother: a hardworking *****;
the disdain for your father, doesn't matter which;
your sighs; your cries; how you **** in your cheeks;
it's been seven months and I have not heard a peep.

The noise I missed was when you left.
No ticks, no puffs, no descriptive monologues;
Yeah, you left like the sunshine in a
nuclear sky.

one time i went to the lake and i saw many dead carp fish lining the sides of the ocean
their big mouths lay open, gaping ways to their bloated bodies
i hated seeing that and their
collection of scales:
blue and or maybe silver lining scales
orbiting, having
fallen off with the push of the stagnant water,
the loosening of cells from the massive host.

in high school she ate two slices of pizza
and an apple
and i ate pasta with butter
and nothing else.
sometimes nothing. we would eat nothing
and study latin
for no reason.
the pizza was disgusting
and latin was very boring.
we would bicker she said

that i looked like
jesus i said
that is rude. i don't like you.
i don't like
her.

i wish i
knew
like
her.

I still have the USSR on the globe
in my room. Remember that time when it fell on you?
And you skirted away like
it was a bomb?
I hope it didn't scare you.
I didn't mean for it to drop on you.

I still have the blue nail polish
on my toenails. It doesn't have anything to do with you.
At least not objectively, you know?
You probably don't since
you are a dog.
And also because you are dead.

I keep it on because it was there when you were here.
And now you are gone.
Which is ok.
Not bad.

Because I still have the USSR on my globe.