His shirt is too small.
Not too small in the sense that he is a dumbass who
Should have bought the right size.
No shirt seems to fit the pit stains
Swallowing his arms with the perfume
Of first date nerves and the awkwardness
Of the soggy must of locker-room-penises.
His beard is patchy.
Like a boy sprawled along the floor of the barber shop
Collecting bits of people to glue to his face.
It resembles the pubic patch of grown men
Running their hands over rough denim
Until their crotch all over his face.
He has Jesus tattooed on his arm.
As if he is some new-age-badass Christian
Who is thuggin’ for the Lord.
But Jesus was probably far from his mind,
Probably all the way over in Jerusalem
Shouting like a refrigerator buzz,
While his macho representative
Swallowed his first cock.
As far back as he could go.
As deep as he could go.
He wears glasses and button up shirts.
So he probably looks out of place in the circle
Of drug addicts and alcoholics where
It only takes twelve steps to stomp on your soul
Like a child kicking up rainwater from puddle to puddle.
They have a dance that has only twelve steps
To sway all over the grave of your homosexuality.