Two tight
butts
both
belch
into
the bowl.

Toilet.

At night,
I
fight
tight
butts
of
the whole
world.

What kind of story can I write with a pen,
when the common story sold by a friend
is one of the short ones told with a gleam in the eye
No ink, just a sharp in the hand. No stink, though,
I just want it over, man. My living room is no tomb,
it's entrance and exit, byway to the highway but the
shoulder's overflowing, growing closer to me than
you think and neighbor, you're the 216.