So now I talk about vomit in terms of stain radii. 
Targets. Blast zones. I mean this sexually. I told you. I told you

that Tyra Banks should
let plus-sized male models on American’s Next Top Model.

Please talk about my body like you would new construction equipment.
That conversation’s just an industrial washout zone remembering couch loaf now.

Where was I during the autoerotic conversion boxing and truck loading
of housemate mortal iconography? Shit,

I was getting my nails did.
I love the sound of you peeing.

The word girl comes from the word pee, which means to squat, which means to meet your limbs.

I was a supermodel but now I’m. You are reading. I am having sex with you.
You are a mountain. This has nothing to do with your weight.

I love to slap you around and tell you things in the dark about my bedtime.
I became a model because of my need to drive straight into you

until I was a panic of trees and a ramble of falling rocks.  
I name rocks for my poses and for the shirts that though once so fit.

On days in the universe like this we tell just-so stories of once-was, anytime
while people are waiting for us to pull out so they can take our parking spaces.

It’s a good day for models to be competing. I saved vexation’s X’s and O’s.
This cascading earth nature that keeps growing reminds me of a TV show.

Television, named for the televisual vortex within which we aren’t super sure about anything else, watched my signature strut. From atop this throne pile of TVs

and neony things
 I love you,

For Chris Mortanson, Becky Dewing, Mike Edrington, and Martha Meiners (TV Club)

No Craigslist search in the world can cover the latitudes of my mortal lack.
I know that now.

I’m an excellent flex. I’m an excellent death. I’ve a killer glare. I have the nose
of a waterslide. I have a talent for listing talents. I’m good at qualities. So xoxo.

Also, I have no home that isn’t a tooth smile of straight suburb streets. I’ll never
find what I’m looking for here online no matter how I word it.

This is my long way of saying abandoned missile silos are expensive. Also
that I want to infect you, quarantine you, and peel off your flesh and lick it clean.

Some come with fences and compound cameras. All are B-Y-O-Deep-Holes.
I want post offices, gas station drink deals, this-space-for-rent manifestos, pictures

of my family.
They left and I have to take care of myself. I am going to be a big boy on my own.

We are household pets that way. I am good at winning stuffed animals in claw machines. We are replacement fluff. I’m being so me when I rip and throw your fluff.

Lover mother fucker, we will write the kind of poetry college RAs
would write in creative writing class and read at home

to their family members affixed to tan living room variations
during holidays where American fences are frozen with rain.

Listen: once-was so lethal’s now empty “duh.” Hello? Ello? Llo? Lo? O?
Any field, USA, I am given to you, but never forgiven. I’ll remember. Your turn.

We aren’t good filmmakers but the stories are good enough to tell themselves clean.
Lover, face the (compound security) camera: This will only hurt a little.

I take myself apart for you as my family before me.
I donate my organs to the post office boxes of the American night.

I give. I give. For the sake of a taking-away fetish.
For the want of small amounts. For the lack, lover, deep and shared.

- - - - - - 

Russell Jaffe lives in Iowa City and is the co-editor of Strange Cage, a poetry chapbook press that runs a reading series. He collects 8-tracks. 


Alana Noel Voth said…
Genius! I'm in love with this. I'm linking at FB and my blog. XO


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