Back when I was wise enough
to drink my weight in bottles monthly
I'd wake up with strange bruises
along the back of my shoulders.
I know now where they came from.
It was all about repentance.
I've landed my share of beautiful women.
I've bedded some gorgeous whores.
But none of them were ever
as comforting as vacuum lines
across a bedroom carpet.
None of them but her.
The truth is that I like the smell
of skunk and can admit it--
like a summer night drive
with windows down at fifty.
I'm probably alone
in seeing every set of lights
as a silent enemy until
they turn their brights back on
to fade in my rearview mirror.
I still flick them on and off
to warn of hidden speed traps
around the bend or down the hill.
I hope I'm not the last
but the air tastes like the stench
of documentarians swarming.
Do you know what human flesh
smells like when it burns?
Pork. It smells like pork.
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