The troubadour planted his last name between
a she-vegan's legs in San Marcos;
rambled north to that country of love, Oklahoma City,
where he took hits of windowsill acid every three hours
for a week straight.

To escape, to begin.

He spent his nights in the St. Cloud Hotel, trying to
sleep on a carpeted floor. He saw a color between
lavender and orange, nameless and impossible to
recreate. He knew all, including he'd forget all.
He shared a room with two high fashion,
burgundy-lipped lesbians, Viv and Jean, and
one night, the last night the troubadour, our troubadour,
was allowed to stay, Jean went out for some fresh air,
code for a cigarette.

"She never smokes just one," Viv said, little Oprahs reflected in her eyes from the plasma screen. She lay on her stomach on the bed,
atop a jungle green comforter. For your discretion and for the discretion of those before you.

Viv brought him between her legs.

"Gentle. Gentle," she said.

The troubadour thought of those Pepsi Challenge commercials as he tongued her ****. A lesbian has an edge when it comes to oral pleasure. Across the nation more people prefer Pepsi. She's got the same parts, sure, but as the troubadour wordlessly recited the alphabet with his tongue to her, he felt confident Jean hadn't put in this kind of effort, not lately anyways. And so what if he's Coke? The troubadour preferred Coke. Viv snagged a handful of his hair, "Don't stop," she said. "Don't stop."

And it all ended, as drug-addled, hetero-on-**** escapades always do: abruptly and with an "I think you should leave before she comes back," a "But sweetheart, this, us, I think this means something," an "I like girls," a "But," an "I just needed an edge," and later that night as he marveled at the  brilliance of the common streetlight, tripping his *** off on his last hit of LSD, he empathized.

the shadow in the corner,
looks at me, whispers,
and whispers, at me ear,

looking for a way, to
become and merge with me.
as an insisting parasite,

as a shadow inside me,
but  futile, and vain,
i'm too egotic, to let him.

enjoying my years of pain,
as a heartless man,
but the whispers, share his
childish flashes, a futile pursuit.

to myself, to be merge,
with creeps, cowards,
and annoyingly vain.

the poets secret crown,  of
lovers in heaven, golden and
invisible, but made of pain.

cover my head, as a dead poet,
passing at this era, not blind or
vain, but true, and loving every girl.

even those i hate, the sexi hip bones.
the ego of a lion, never can be merge,
with a creep, pathetic and weak,
but he tries still.

wise by pain and deceit,
a lover in the prime, longing,
loving, watching, smelling them all.

with or without, gauche or droit.
tout le femme, e belle et magnifique,
comme le pleure de madeleine,
le sacre femme.

and this shadow, in me ear,
wants to be me,and make them feel,
complete and divine, as a goddess.
as y make them feel.

or a lioness, in the hand of a fouling,
and feverishly beast. burning and longing,
for the tresor, in their chalis, as mother earth,
smelling as her, as a jungle, and a door,
to infinite delights, between their thighs.

the shadow in my ear, y can see her pain,
but, it was his ******* choice, trie to be me,
and didn't make it, for being weak.

as an adult, inside the veil,
of a mouse's in a suit, the persistence
is futile, a shadow, trying in vain,

to be as me, but can't be but himself.
a lame little shadow mouse, in loved,
with a beast, can't love until she love
herself.

can't live or know anybody,
until he knows himself, and accept
his truth, until that happens, nothing,
will save him from him,
and his shame, is a cross.

as a man, can't live, as a boy either.
just as a shadow, in my body, trying to be me.
but failing at it, to weak and vain, to be me.

all y think, as i watch her, is thinking,
and for this  ****,  almost burn my ***,
and destroy my life, good choices, babes

but all wrongs, can't be forgiven,
or excused. all the pain was
hell on earth, but still unbreakable.


and loving even those that y still
hate, the lover's love even **** haters.

covered by lies, y emerge from the hell

some girls create, for the one, who wasn't.
an they where never me.
and now anyone can see. it was only
lies and deceit, little girls playing dodgeball,

for the shame of the creeps
not everything can be forgiven,
as y say,  good choice babes.

20 years later, they still can't be me,
or not feel ashamed for their weakness,
or accepting their fate, and being without
feeling a ******* disgrace,

but nothing to
be ashamed of,
just their cowardness,
like tigers not accepting
the stripes,

creepy shadow on my wall,
you will never be me.
accept it and be free,

or you'll end up blowing lucy,
in the basement, loving the burning,
of HELL.

as THE shadow of a mouse,
in Lucy's playground,
suffering, and being only
you, the one you hate.

but you never were me.

he still spells your name with an "i" instead of a "y"
even though you're the one who fixed it in his contacts the day you watched him write it down.
it doesn't matter.
it's just a small mistake.  
just like the one you made this morning when you didn't realize you were being asked a question.  
not being able to distinguish your name at the beginning of a sentence when you're not looking for errors.
responding to his text messages.
typing out his name.
tracing back over red lines.
he might not be able to spell your name but he takes the time to spell out:
Baby instead of Babi.
**** instead of Sexi.
Easy instead of Easy.
Lying instead of Lieing to you.
and now you're starting to see the world through his "i"'s.
so you'll stop reminding him.
stop asking "y"