“How DO you do that?”/
She asks incredulously./
It’s because of her.

She asked me
to write
what is in
my heart.

Why that organ?
Why not
my lungs?
Pink quivering sacs
that gasp at the site
of her?

Why not my brain?
The repository of ideas
and thoughts of her,
and multi-sylabbic big words that
sometimes I can’t spell?

Why not my loins
that yearn for her
even when she takes
the breath out of my lungs,
the feelings out of my heart,
and the thoughts out of my brain?

They always work.

Baby’s screaming
past crepes completed.
She must have had
the chipolte pain.

Why don’t her parents
take her out?
There is a hot blonde
with her thigh
against mine,
and hearing a baby’s
gurgle
does not give me
the effect
I was looking for.

Yes, Mom.
She’s going to keep screaming
even though you
keep singing
to her
off-key
about some dumb rabbit.

The rabbit died.
Seriously.
Oh, no… please tell me
I don’t have to sing
“POPCORN POPPING”
to keep her quiet!
But… it worked.
And it’s not even open mic night.

Morbidly obease, /
I recline in my chair and/
dream of steakbite death.

My friend’s granddaughter’s /
hair grows back as my heart breaks./
I am the lucky one.

Even blonde stars hurt,/
sometimes. Oh, wait. REM/
already said that.

Sitting at the scene/
of one of the greatest meals/
ever, maybe it’s time.

I’m goo’d. She doesn’t/
know. Her trip photos show her/
love as a Grandma.

I’m posing in sweats/
near a PT Cruiser. Will/
that catch her int’rest?

I’d send you photos/
of me smiling, but truth is,/
I’m in bed, dying.