I blast the airhorn before the lump on the floor knows what’s going on.

don’t say the truth                  

it’s presumptuous                               and tastes like an airhead           

My wife watched me walk headfirst into a mirror.

Why can’t time be both? History repeating 

Itself but making progress too?

Now there is a skeleton outside my window. And skeletons on all the dating app profiles.

This marriage project
What a blast

The face in my mirror keeps getting older –
Into the face of the man who beat me

I reminded myself that I spent just as many lonely afternoons in the State Library of Victoria with a pile of international Vogues as I did at a Goodwill in the Valley.

I thought maybe I would learn something about how to be less judgemental, or something.

A few minutes later I was presented with a tall, condensation-covered glass, containing an opaque, dark-green liquid that looked like it had been skimmed off the surface of a stagnant pond. I took a tentative sip.

Every winter, the Jersey Shore freezes into an old car in the driveway, tarped and bricked until May.

How they stabbed me and got away with it!

I guess my approach is not to take myself too seriously, which sounds kind of dumb and obvious, and just to write the sort of book I most like to read, which is usually something heavy but also light on its feet, fast-paced and horny, and generally not too full of itself.

Sometimes they say, You can’t really teach someone to write a poem, in which case you might answer, Well,
not you.

He came down my throat, I slurped it all up.

I didn’t want to write this essay, but I know somebody will publish it and feel good about themselves for platforming a disabled voice.

Our lovemaking is a demilitarized zone.

Shit, is this what the Zoom room people mean when they say fantasy addict?

I burst from every orifice but one.

This final image crushed me. It was a forewarning of what identity destruction can lead to if we
don’t truly understand ourselves to begin with.

i don’t think there will be booze
for sale, the style writer says, 
because it’s a synagogue

I am just a village idiot.

“You’re dirty,” you said to me, “I don’t kiss you because I think about how many dicks must’ve been in your mouth."

in the midst of a historic crisis, i ride my bike to the river

Everything tended to with love bears fruit they told me. 

Now I don’t care anymore. I’m writing posthumously; I’m invisible now – like an “aging actress”!

That every aspect of her life could have an expensive accoutrement was highly erotic.

I was sobbing too loud for the men’s room and I was in no shape to explain myself so I settled on the supply closet next to it. After a couple minutes of moping I got a BBM (we had to have Blackberries then, for whatever reason) from Jarrett. “Were fuck are you bro?”

There’s something unbearably endearing
about Pepto-Bismol in its retro European
packaging

How much would you pay to have an honest conversation with yourself?