Past wrapped like god in my breakfast burrito
cold insides combined with wheezy dog
her eyes obedient
mine the fane of her fixation
the warmth is something i'll miss
this time next year
the smell of no time for showers fills
the house
I trip on words en route
to the bathroom
books to floor
awaiting my touch
I sleep with many men, many women
Camus vies for my attention
while Celine pulls my hair
Coleman asserts the ghettos as
a Ghost
abhorrence aimed at self
first man needs woman
and
HE HATES
himself for it
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