Spandex leggings authenticating my anaerobic
exit strategies. Crotch but a bumper sticker
in a heretofore-fleeting waterloo. Crunk repentance. I span
our doomed alphabet soup like Jane Fonda’s antiwar legs
in calisthenic videos. My zenith of hair a brown,
wannabe-Fawcett, mean-ole-toucan pupic papa — .
He who so feeds on an entire corpus and still
starves, helms the colloquium outside the bathroom
Tonight — a vastly archived Nietzschean
nighttime — I anal bleach my humpty-
Boys conch with crimson Hollywood carpets that disentangle
from their cavities, accustoming their catwalks upon the blood
clots of their mamacitas. As twilight uncrowns the shade,
I howl effluvium, switchblade hue
to hue. I plié before the gas cloud lifting jumbo leaves.
Like a mythic infantry, the thirsty roaches begin to leatherflock.