How to not
I have all these heightening emotions that my mom calls
Line breaks. It’s a poetical thing,
A routine between two fingers
That always seem to reek of cum and coffee.
All it took was a night out alone on 21st street
To meet a man who confessed to me he had just raped a woman.
“What kind of woman?” I inquired, wonderfully.
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.” He responded, loosening me up.
NOT ASK? Then how do you know it was rape at all?!
I have all these heightening emotions that my friends call
Impotency. I was just too high to get an erection.
I opened the door. I sat on my front side. I closed my eyes
And refused to be kissed by anyone that
Hadn’t read Wordsworth religiously.
I thought of signing up for the AIDS walk. I thought of gold rings.
I thought of digging a hole into someone’s sandals.
I remember never thinking of children in Africa when eating a meal:
It spoils it. Run the beans and suddenly you’re home.
And I have all these heightening emotions
For no reason other than to shudder.
My ex always said it was because I didn’t sit at river sides enough.
What am I? Virginia Woolf on a flustered night?
Shriek me Orlando! You bastard.
B R I A N A L A R C O N