carl, cashier, age fourty-five
looks at us with his yellowed eyes and
spits out a
thank-you-sir as he plays with the coins i just told him to keep
carl, cashier, age fourty-five
looks at us as we leave and as
you try not to touch the door frame on your way out
carl, cashier, age fourty-five
had the greasy skin I'd imagine a pervert
watching us fuck through the window of this
thirty year-old motel and spitting on his hand
would have
carl, cashier, age fourty-five watching
as you lie down and touch your naked stomach
to feel the vibrations of your words
as you spell out filth with your teeth just because you like
how the t's sound when you're wet with it
carl, cashier, age fourty-five
rents me room number fifty-seven where
i sit naked on the bed watching you undress and spell out words
with your black voice made of tar and spilling through my ears
like boiling blood coming up my throat
and then, then when i am inside you and i see
your eyes even though they are closed then
i know, i wait
i expect you to take out that knife or that strychnine
i wait for you to draw how you want me with your tongue
i wait for you to choke me with it
if you are not real
if you are not real
it only makes sense if you are not real
if i am a mission belonging to you:
if your saliva was engineered to burn down my nervous system
and i know and i walk with this sweet venomous imminence
sitting on my chest
i find this urgency and i sink with it.
Wordmongers' Masque: Poets' Ball