So that was why your eyes dodged mine.

Someone call the architect--
these prints aren't matching up.
Somewhere along the Longest Line
Misfortune turned his head for a second
and let a winner slip by in my general direction.

So now instead of useless friction of the hips
there's a fire between my heels
and the bedsheets
that only one can extinguish
without the aid of a good book
or a stiff drink
though either are OK in her company.

It's a damp flank from the wet spot
with faces reeking of sex
and what can we say for ourselves
that hasn't been said already?,
besides "I'm grateful for this day
and every day to come."

It's looking in the rear view
and seeing that the chipmunk made it
despite your failure to swerve

and why buy it at the yard sale when you can rise early
and beat the garbage man to it the next day?

"What are you, Babe?"
"A pain junky, of course."

There's no need to remind me
how to open that vein;
we taught each other, remember?

And the Holy Rollers flood the month of April
with blood to let, a need to feed--
"Ah, Christ. Who let them in again?"
and, more importantly, "Who's turn is it
to see them back out?"

Even Jesus' lunch wasn't free;
those fish and loaves, that wine--
they cost Him His life.
The sermon was on repentance
and I hope I wasn't thinking aloud
when I wished the preacher would tighten his collar
until his face was as blue as his veins used to be.

(It's a mattress shoved in a dumpster
and who taught you to parallel park
that really matters.

I'm sorry if this offends you
but if you want a square look in the eyes at night
I need somewhere to spit the poison
and what better place than my desk?)

She was hoping I'd change my mind
between now and the Apocalypse.
Why else would you give a Rosary to a Heathen?

(I'm hoping she hasn't seen my bank statement.)

[Act I, Scene IV: Slowly but surely the subconscious creeps in...]

This isn't writing, it's drunken Copy-and-Paste.
It's no wonder it smells like rum and cum
and failure in here.