Tart Smack

I keep bubblegum wrappers with notations, your vice villanelle
cherry pop and pancreas Polyjuice, an exchange of habits
and horror story whores emasculated by the way you tiptoe
around the side of a wet pool, avoiding splinters and slips
of nipples with your bad knees    bad vibes    bad juju.

I’m jealousy. Full-bodied jealousy. Full-bodied and green apple
jealousy. A tart smack across your face when I want your full-bodied
rejection. Let this old man have you and I will let you have them.
An astronomy of nonsense inswept of brat like mockery. Or skepticism?
Who am I to keep a good muse tied to the underground, my pocket
full of confetti torn from starburst and construction paper.
I admire you. From the height of middle school until your dying day.
If ever there were a time and place, you live there, like poised
magpies, with predatory V formation on my mind. I crawl to you,
one life lesson at a time. Beyond that, I know nothing about you.

The sum of your whole is, in a bass drop, the hole of everything.

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