How many times can you wipe your ass
before it turns into play?
I think you’ve been in there.
How far can you drive into a tunnel
before you’re driving out?
If you think yourself this disgusting,
then there’s really no crossing
the fucking hour I’ve already waited
on this side of the door.
Shave it. Wipe it. Wash it.
It’s like deliberately writing a bad poem
in the middle of which a hummingbird
sips at the trees outside your window.
Something’s clean only once distracted,
once the light in front becomes larger
than the one shrinking. Fuckin’ A.
We’re gonna die. And believe me,
I’ll be sorry if it’s not Jesus freshly showered,
each body part scrubbed by whore-hair and tears,
each wound glistening blood—
peace sign with a nail hole in it.
But that’s too familiar, and something in me
hopes despite the evidence, that where I
go won’t be already used.
For Christ’s sake hurry up!
Yours isn’t the only journey
that’s gotta flush.
I have got to settle dark smear
onto fresh sheet
and send it down into hiding, too,
below me, the smart rim refills.
That motion, that’s what I’ve
been talking about this whole time, but
the beating of a thumb-sized angel blurs.
We send parts of ourselves to announce
an eventual arrival.
Why are we so clever hiding the destination?
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Because of all the fucking flies.