Regrets (a thought)

Do you ever wonder?

Do you ever look through your text message drafts,

or down at the paragraph you wrote−−

just before you deleted it and closed your phone?

Do you ever go down that road,

and wonder what could’ve happened if you sent that message,

or said what you felt?

What if you spoke every raw emotion that seeped from your thumping heart,

(those emotions that flow only when you’re lowest,

and in the darkest trenches of the night,)

to the love of your life,

or to the friend across the table?

It might be hard at first,

but once your crusty lips break through the mucus of fear,

and speak what needs to be spoken,

it will all be better.

Untitled

A long, tubular protrusion.

A sore rectum,

and a large utility box.

They converge and reproduce with several intergalactic dingbats,

while an elderly woman moans−

I proceed to comfort her with a toothbrush.

Adultery

Not a poem, but hey

I stood there; the slow creaking of the door behind me sounding fainter than it usually did against the birch frame.  Looking forward, even in the dim light, I knew; I knew he sat there on my bed, among my belongings, among the warm covers of my mattress.  I imagined his gluttonous eyes glowing like an animals–a ravenous beast that could shred the very fabric of my life with its teeth.

The hysteria inside of me began to gurgle and foam and boil through my saliva, dripping and spitting into the air as I rambled inside of my mind but said nothing–just staring as the rage and nausea spilt into my lungs and heart.  And then I felt it: Death’s scythe plunging into my back with a burning heat.  I quickly turned around, but sadly, Death was not standing there to greet me; instead, my wife, simple and beautiful, laced in pink, cocked her head and said, “It will all be fine soon enough.”

Searching

Is it so hard to find a girl?

One that’s morally upright,

yet not uptight?

 

A girl who’s not a robot,

or a snob,

or secretly a man named Bob?

 

Would it be too much to ask for a laid back woman,

who’s not Mormon,

and doesn’t nag every second?

 

Just a girl who is kind,

genuinely smart,

who’s looks don’t go straight to her head,

and who doesn’t think I just want to get her in the bed?

 

Is it so hard to find a girl like that?

A girl that lets me be me,

and doesn’t ask me to change a thing?

 

A girl who acts the same everywhere,

and finds happiness everywhere,

even in the dark corners of time,

where the poison of doubt lies?

 

Someone who tells the truth,

and doesn’t play games?

A girl who doesn’t question when I’m late,

insinuating guilt and creating shame?

 

I’m beginning to think that girl isn’t out there.

I’m beginning to just not care.

 

 

 

Space Sex

A lot of people ask me why I don’t have sex.

I just tell them to imagine space-sex,

the kind of space-sex where you lounge on the rings of Saturn−

naked…

watching the asteroids crash and burn into Earth,

while we massage each other in our indestructible lawn chairs.

And while we did it,

I’d wear a unicorn mask and eat a jellybean sandwich to make it all the more memorable.

And you’d be okay with that−because it’s our first time.

 

Then when Saturn’s orbit started to wrap towards the sun, climaxing—

the burning heat scorching our lovely bodies,

and the lilting hurricane harmonizing with our awkward yelps—

at the moment when we’re overdosing on that indescribable drug,

we’d look into each other’s eyes without fear,

Because we’re in space, honey,

a place where STDs and unwanted babies don’t exist,

and where we can eat all the cookies we want.

The Operation

A flamingo-like bulb blinks…

a large upper toe.

Meat-flavored pimples ooze,

a Chrome spoon.

I replace all my teeth with lobster meat,

and my toes with large sheets of grocery store ham.

“Oh, baby,” I scream−−

Pants.

The operation is complete.

Cologne

Cologne reminds me of too many things,

like each part of my life is set in a smell.

So when we went out,

and I expected the worse,

I put on cologne I would never wear,

just so I wouldn’t have to take in the scent of failure.

So I suppose if it worked out,

then I’d be stuck wearing a scent I didn’t like,

so I’d smell it anyway.

Lose lose.