(February)
My favorite televangelist declares that
self-knowledge requires
discipline and discipline requires
repetition and repetition is
discipline and discipline is the
ability to glimpse change and to
glimpse change one must know that
change wears the
same old garments.
My wife’s friend describes my
son’s penis as
not that small while I
change his diaper
in the park.
My wife enters the bedroom as my pinky finger joins
three other digits inside my
well-lubricated asshole leaving me
seconds to suspend my
self-examination hide the
bottle of lubricant in the
laundry hamper and explain my
state of undress by declaring my
intention to shower
before bed.
My son’s babysitter washes dishes as I
euphemize my desires via
telephone to my
drug dealer
thus confirming
cocaine’s legendary sway.
My favorite transsexual prostitute blames my
inability to orgasm on the
cocaine I snort between
tonguing her nipple and
suckling her perineum.
My veterinarian cites my dog’s weight as
evidence that humans
lack restraint.
My attempt to relieve my
hemorrhoids’ endless throbbing ends in
humiliation when I turn from the
Xerox machine to discover that my
co-worker witnesses the
slow deep grind of my
middle finger against the
wrinkle-free seat
of my chinos.
My mother-in-law proclaims my
Peking Duck
superior to her
Mu Shu Chicken.
My wife inquires as to the
bottle of lubricant she
discovers inside a
duvet cover amidst
freshly-laundered linens.
My plan to preempt the tedium of my
interminable commute ends in
misfortune when the
line I snort provokes my
nostrils’ discontent and I stumble
eyes watering vision blurred over a
toy train.
My doctor jokes that I need not injure myself just to
receive treatment for my
chronically swollen anal veins as he
diagnoses a
sprained ankle.
My brother-in-law’s unexpected appearance at the
coffee shop where I await my
dealer’s belated appearance becomes
unbearable as the sight of my
crutches prompts him to recall
loudly and in great detail his
accidental interruption of a
former roommate’s date with a
strap-on-girded prostitute whose
massive prosthesis plumbed the
profundities of his roommate’s rectum.
My wife disparages my
parenting skills accuses me of
addictive behaviors and insults my
taste in pornography while
berating me for
failing to refrigerate
yesterday’s bottles of
expressed breast milk.
My pillowcase receives the
unconscious maps my
bleeding nose draws as
near daybreak I dream that my
favorite transsexual prostitute’s
cigarette breath stirs dried semen’s
earthy scent from my whiskers.
My wife quizzes me over the
flat razors hidden in the
bathroom cabinet
with which I divide my
collections of white powder before
blowing lines on the toilet’s
porcelain lid.
My favorite transsexual prostitute’s
cocaine-dipped finger
inserted with pressure that
almost passes as affection
alleviates my
hemorrhoidal suffering.
My wife spoils my plan to
catch an hour of my
favorite televangelist whose
saccharine countenance espouses the
healing powers of Jesus whose
smooth hands massage the
Good Book atop his
antique desk she
demands that I
take my son
to the park.
My cousin apropos I know not what to my
wife recounts my family’s concern when at
age ten my aunt found me
eyes closed pants down dick in
hand her strand of
antique pearls
in my mouth.
My son enters my home office pursued by his
babysitter while I sit at my
desk pants down computer playing
Tranny Cumshots
on endless loop.
My favorite televangelist digresses on
humility as space and space as an
awareness of measure and measure an
awareness that one does not take up space
so much as space take up
everything one is not.
My car is ticketed while I admire the
laminated authenticity of the
coffee shop that my
drug dealer prefers for its
patent leather booths.
My son points to the red-rinsed
rind of my
foreskin as I
exit the shower
distracted by my
inability to recollect the
sensation when at last my
favorite transsexual prostitute’s eyes
close mouth slackens body stiffens and her
cock spasms
inside me.