Jan 2018
A Fancy Word For A Plug
That’s how it opens, from the end ripped off, the open end. Good bread, meh. The best bread I can find
here right now.
every afternoon someone finds everything they’ve thought they’ve ever needed in the trove of glances stalking their eyes stalking back at someone only
five minutes ago they may have called them, stranger, but brilliantly they have hope now, or the illusion I had thinking I’d be able to please every woman I’d ever take to bed
being fifteen years old can do that to someone who spends nights after high school smoking his father’s marijuana. It’s funny how glances and stares are all a single man needs to feel empowered by a woman
like he’s just captured his muse in a butterfly net. This is before he learns not all lepidoptera are butterflies, before he learns to transmit his rattling indecipherable hormones to her antennae, but never to touch the wings.
He is a stalker of wing-touches, with a fancy diet to guide him through the unforgivable minutes he tricks himself into thinking he can make anyone happy, he carves a topaz vase he hoards the few moments before any voice should trammel these moments whose preciousness isn’t foretold by nearly a decade.
Everyone wants to escape someone to move from one silence to another, they put on a show if only to escape everyone they ever went begging eyes from in a not so distant past.
I used to last eight or nine times a day in college, I made a collage of faces for a Freshman-studies course, as if there was no price too vain for me to expose my soaked and fleshy junk. That was until I started guilty catching stares, taking away a gaze from another’s gaze, becoming Casanova for a moment, then again it’s still hard to resist something I know six billion people are wanting to put inside or be put inside.
That’s how it opens, from the end ripped off, the open end. Good bread, meh. The best bread I can find
here right now.
every afternoon someone finds everything they’ve thought they’ve ever needed in the trove of glances stalking their eyes stalking back at someone only
five minutes ago they may have called them, stranger, but brilliantly they have hope now, or the illusion I had thinking I’d be able to please every woman I’d ever take to bed
being fifteen years old can do that to someone who spends nights after high school smoking his father’s marijuana. It’s funny how glances and stares are all a single man needs to feel empowered by a woman
like he’s just captured his muse in a butterfly net. This is before he learns not all lepidoptera are butterflies, before he learns to transmit his rattling indecipherable hormones to her antennae, but never to touch the wings.
He is a stalker of wing-touches, with a fancy diet to guide him through the unforgivable minutes he tricks himself into thinking he can make anyone happy, he carves a topaz vase he hoards the few moments before any voice should trammel these moments whose preciousness isn’t foretold by nearly a decade.
Everyone wants to escape someone to move from one silence to another, they put on a show if only to escape everyone they ever went begging eyes from in a not so distant past.
I used to last eight or nine times a day in college, I made a collage of faces for a Freshman-studies course, as if there was no price too vain for me to expose my soaked and fleshy junk. That was until I started guilty catching stares, taking away a gaze from another’s gaze, becoming Casanova for a moment, then again it’s still hard to resist something I know six billion people are wanting to put inside or be put inside.
