I am sentenced to stay
in the pockets of your face.
No need to ask me if I agree
with your thoughts, for I know
you don’t consider me much,
as if I’m not laboring away,
flipping reality on its head,
creating the images that swim
through the cords of your memory.

You have taken me to
dark places: rooms with rank nebulas
of smoke, toilets in underground
bars caked with ****, bedrooms with
too many occupants…

I will sit and be sour,
in my God-given pocket.
You will stroke that raw pork
in your freezer, then stroke me,
unconsciously.