We nibbled on paradoxes.
Like houses of cards and romances
following three a.m. phone calls
from the bar or the mistress,
they crumbled in our mouths.
Tasted divine, heavenly.
We waited for tomorrow
to pass us in the next lane,
but he was texting Wednesday
and caused a pileup.
But time doesn't stop for anybody.
I've had loads of tomorrows, anyways.
I've got one in a few hours.

Those paradoxes
didn't settle in my stomach.
They didn't make homesteads.
They made nuclear power plants
and then blew them up.
Paradoxes are a lot like humans.
Cause heartburn, destroy things.

I'm going to go lay down.
My stomach is gurgling,
as though to say
that the paradoxes are
in disagreement with it.
They doubled back on themselves,
says my gut
before it implodes
and covers my conscience in gore.
Lovely.

Call me a sandwich.
I'm full of jelly.
Or am I like a Hot Pocket?
New flavor, new filling.

Those paradoxes
once said
that love is like a Hot Pocket.
Great advertising,
terrible product.
Premium cuts of meat my @#$.

I'm rambling.
Sorry if my bleeding innards
and paradoxical statements
fail to amuse your standards.
I think
I need a drink.

There's another paradox in the box if you want it.