"Billie Jean is not my lover."
But she tells me differently
In private.
Now, however, there's a baby
Carrying her impulsive libido
Inside of it.

A matryoshka of folly
Long nights of Texas ***** and blow
Multiple partners, that's fine, just tell me!
But please let your other suitors know
That you aren't the only one
Carrying their load.

My heart sunk, believe me,
When I drove over to your house.
And it pained me to see
Your face, for the first time,
Unable to make an expression.

One, two, three vicodin
Four, five, six at a time
Seven concluded your session.

I found you wandering the eerily-still
Streets,
Even though it was a beautiful afternoon.
I love you so much, but please...
Don't die.  I'm not in the mood.

My friend
My brother
Just got nicked by ICE

I'm going to stab
The next ****** I see in a MAGA hat

I sit in a burgundy leather chair at work
Hoping that I don't get fired.
But I tried downloading an unauthorized program onto my computer
And a pop-up with the word *******
Flashed across the screen when I went to check the baseball scores.

Maybe I will forsake this whole ******* life
And run off into a hermitage
Heaping ashes on myself, prostrated before a cheap wax statue.
But on some level what I'm really doing
Is avoiding responsibility.

I'm dreading the drive home, to be honest
Because I know you will greet me with that fiery anger
That paradoxically gives me an *******
But also breaks my heart.

Maybe I can just walk in the door
***** preemptively sealed in a yellowed Mason jar,
And say,

"Just stay right where you are, Steve."
"We don't want any trouble..."

This is too much.

Surely, I did something
To deserve things as such.

A lazy, glassy-eyed ****.
You haven't kissed me open-mouth
In well over 15 months.

The good guy routine
Well, it isn't a routine...
But I artfully mask my anger with
******* at night
And in the mornings caffeine.

I imagine
That when you look at me
I'm less man than machine.

But knowing me,
I'll continue to flog myself
For these crimes I haven't committed.
And maybe one day the gavel will fall
And I'll finally be ever-acquitted.

You know what?
It may not feel real to you, but
It does to me.  
Lies so often that it’s uprooted my own
Sense of sensibility.  

Gentle, loving touch
I feel it deep shivers down my back
The services you render
I haven’t seen
Since I ran Allroy off the track.

Peck rapidly with your thumbs
Although you can barely read.
But here I stay, I care
I can’t explain the need.

She was hungry, peaked and breathless
“I’m starving”
Words meant to manipulate
I capitulate
“How big is the salami?”
“Roll it up with cream cheese, have you ever
Had it like that?”
I go to the kitchen
And carefully, lovingly roll the soft, silky cheese
Into slices of bologna.  
This was not salami.  
“What the **** is this?  This is not salami.”
“I’m sorry, baby.  I didn’t realize it until...”
“*******, you’re stupid.  Get out of my face.
Now two pieces
Of bologna have gone to waste”.
I look over gently, “I’m sorry”.
She says “shut up, don’t touch me, how could you?” with venom
I was guilty of not knowing my lunch meats
And wasting the precious cheeses within them.

I know you hate it when I sleep
Because your anger is rarely more intense
Than when I shut my eyes
Comfortable on the couch
Wedged between the cushion and the back
Eyes heavy
Drooping
Trying desperately to stay awake for you.

I don't ever want to hear "I don't care"
Come from your mouth again.

I ******* hate
That I have to quit smoking.
I'm not a quitter.

Smoking fills the gaps in time
Between teenage self-awareness and
And sleep of any kind.  
I crave to feel the smoke inside
Slowly eating at my pride.
I don’t want to live as long as you
And watch the world divide.

It’s what I do when you are mad
It’s what I do to **** the pain
At least when my hands are doing this
I forget your cold disdain.

At this point, it’s pure economics.
I don’t want to stop
I love the power of choice, even if that choice
Is poor.  
But you can’t pull your weight without me,
So smoking, nevermore.

I hung onto the back of your belt
Just enough to keep you from going splat on the walkway
Nearly 60 feet below.
You pulled against my grip.
Was it a test?  Because I’d fail
I just might dive after you and paint my brain
In streaks all over the trail.  
No, pull it together.  I’m here to care for you.
I’ll try
To put aside
My own daydreams of suicide.

You are everything to me, I swear
You will never have to walk alone
We’ll face this world of **** together
And battle the unknown.

I just sat on the ******* bathroom floor
For 15 minutes
Listening to my breath faintly wheeze
Through the last cilia in my lung

I felt my chest rise and fall
Shallow

I take notice of the cold-*** tile
And the ache in my back
How my right bicep is throbbing
From a dogbite last night
How my knees ache from years of fighting
And my head pounds like a church bell
From lack of drugs and nicotine

If happiness is the cessation of all desire
Then please Buddha convince me
That my desire to walk the **** out of here
Is more insane than sitting on the ******* floor
Doing nothing.

If Jesus was real
And living down the block
Could I still be saved from death?
Without that rootless burden of proof
To leverage against the clock.

Perhaps, sin would be worse
Don't you think
If I jacked off thinking of someone's spouse
Knowing He was merely yards away
Peeking between the blinds of His own house.

Would He be a hero
Or a pariah?
Sometimes I imagine a political messiah.

Would He be throwing trash cans
Through the windows at Starbucks?
Punching Nazis on YouTube?
Or flying the American flag
from the tailgate of his pickup truck?

No, I'm thinking something more along the lines
Of an old man at the pond
Feeding stale bread crumbs to starving ducks.

Pascal's wager would mean nothing anymore
Since I could look this man in His eyes
And ask Him "What's in store?"

"Please don't judge me by my actions
If you really have a say.
I'm not a bad person, I don't think, it's
Just more fun to disobey."

**

If Jesus was real
And I had a soul to spare,
I'd tell him to mind his ******* business
And cut his ******* hair.

What a wonderful night in LA!
I haven't had this much fun with you
In so long.  Babe,
We needed this.  

"Let me try your pasta".
No.  It is too eh-spice.
"Pleeeeaase".
Ok, go ahead.  Try it.
"no, it's ok".

You know, you're so oppositional.
(Loving, gentle laughter)
I tell you it's too spicy for you
And you want it.
But if I say go ahead and try it
You don't want it anymore.

"*******.  Seriously *******".
That's a horrible thing to say
To your partner.

You see
A dog's behavior is a reflection on you, but
Also
Dogs will be dogs.
"I'm not sure who has agency here".
"Well, it's clearly your fault that our dogs are fighting".

Roxanne is bleeding rivulets, and
Jeff has a neat, surgical hole in her snow-white scalp.
Steve is tired of your ****, and
His knee-****** now has a desert chrome shine
From being scraped across the floor.

"Please, tell me what to do and I'll do it".
Shut up.  
With every eyeroll, every sigh
A length of 18-gauge wire
Sadistically pierces my heart.

This is the third night in a row I've cried myself to sleep.
Maybe tomorrow will be the day it all works out.

When I was still a young, doughy-eyed kid
Full of wonder
I learned how to properly swing a baseball bat
At a prestigious university baseball camp.

Your front toe, which was my left,
Is to be turned slightly inward,
With the bat flat against your shoulder.  
Elbows are ALWAYS down.

A team of overpaid sport scientists determined that this
Shortens the swing significantly and decreases reaction time.

But what this fails to do
Is teach someone how to make that sick, wet, visceral bat-to-ball connection,
Or how to find that sweet spot
Where the ball seems like it's been launched
From a medieval catapult.

And it also, most importantly, doesn't teach you
How to get the **** out of the way
When the pitcher maliciously throws the ball
Directly at your teeth.

That, my dear, is pure instinct.

We sat on the front porch
Musing about how the stoop should be two steps higher
And that the concrete is actually comfortable
To lay down on.

Each drag of my overpriced cigarette
Scorched my throat
And I've felt like there's a sunburn on my tonsils
For three months now.

You talked easily and matter-of-factly about our future
while I watched your soft, chubby belly fold
Over your shorts and swell
Matching your breath and measured speech.

You commented that the weather was finally pleasant
But I still felt the sticky humidity on my skin
Heavy like your paranoia
Heavy like your anger
The universe had blessed me with this conversation tonight
But the sun always rises, and it will burn me again
Soon enough.

I ain't ever told a lie
Except that one, I swear.
I wouldn't dare
I only lie because it's fair.

You have me backed into a corner
So I react with proper flair.
In this moment, I ******* hate you
There's another lie right there.