Salted Caramel Macaroons. To Go Containers.
Inside a sweeping cursive. That is where I am. That is where I will go, boozy and numb. The dark and expansive red, trying to make itself mean something. I ride its loop. I am a fucking surfer. My hang ten. My cutback. My big dick scraping that board, chafing. Poor dick tip all red and sore. Put your tongue to it. Little lappings. “Poor baby. Make it all better.” Use those words. Mean them. Lap some more.
I cup my hand around you. A baby bird. I graze your cheeks with my thumb. “Why do you love me, baby bird? Why do you love me—a carcass?”
It’s in a blanket fort, except circus tent sized, except smaller, except more cave-like, except not dank, except soft, except light filtering through, except hidden, except lukewarm but trying to reach 75 degrees, except more quite except for small talk except for breathing, except for the sound hands on skin make, except in the forest, except no animals, except no wind, except its own growing entity, except nervous but not confident, except in a way it wants to, except out of time and space, except above all cars, goats and buildings, except not what you are thinking and closer to what you are not thinking. Inside, it’s a building (v).
When they know everything and they do a presentation with Power Point with dry erase board with Excel spreadsheets, with pie charts. Big sentences, % signs, * and laser pointers. Your eyes locked open Clockwork Orange style. They are wearing a Gucci pantsuit. They have a Masters degree. A PHD. You are in sweatpants, eating a booger, slapping the right side of your face with your right hand thinking, “It all makes sense. How come I can’t ever change out of these sweatpants? Stop eating boogers? Stop hurting my face?”
The class goes on and on and on and I stay there, trying to shed my skin.
Beyond it, a meadow.