what do you want from me?
it is as though all the molecules of breath
have formed a line up
requesting a standoff
because we are not sure what dance step to grace you with yet
i hate all of it with the same
fierceness that i love
and must hiss in every plump mouth some sort of sordid truth
like television has held all the answers
and like this fine aged gouda pairs well with this stout
lady in the corner staring at her stop watch
smoothing her hair back like an orchestra conductor.
It is so good to have you only a digit away
but i want the sway of this intrepid sound wave to penetrate like a sharp breath
as if you and all creation are drowning
like your shoulder shrugs
were a work of art
and you give a shit
what this drunk girl has to say.