In the December of my youth,
I fucked a giraffe
when my parents weren’t looking
(when were they ever?);
it tasted like chicken.
I once paid two dozen duckets
for a Stan Yerkes baseball card.
It was only worth one ducket, at most,
but I walked around like God Rockefella himself
for weeks after that.
Theresa has bulges you wouldn’t believe.
She’s got a fly’s life and only complains
when the cat food is stale.
I’d marry Theresa, but she reminds me of nuns.
And I, last time I checked, am
not Jesus, nor even Jesus-like.
I’ve got a belly full of shoes.
My paintings won’t sell anymore.
Inevitability is the only thing that haunts me.
That
and all the different kinds of knots.
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