I am so achy
waiting for the world to come back to me
or for me to come back to the world
No one to tell these stories to
only others’ stories to tell
No way of telling where
these things will always ever end up
I think of sex & of Godzilla with the wake of detritus that trails behind
his fiery gaze—millions of extension cords, telephone line & fiber (think
cereal, think sincere & serial addictions; repeat) optic cable (so hot,
that Godzilla, that I can dial him up, that I can give into
his new sex games, that big-ass monster Yes). I am so tight
I cannot speak. This yes this rash of it this gush. Reply, then rinse.
Repeat. I think of cream & a monster foot set down on it & thus
it is in me. I am this print fossilized in Nivea. I wait to be filled in
with whatever comes next. I hope it looks like love.