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another morning,
another full moon –
entombed in this Pacific Northwestern Khartoum.
please Stargate rights-holders, don’t sue!

the waste paper basket is in full bloom
from all the other times the sacred rheum
once every thousand years was blew,
filling the air with its spume perfume.
the city won’t come around until the sun hits aground
so it’s too early still to exhume.
i exhale…

i’m sure that, in time,
these acclamations will grow stale –
the ones about issues altogether male
when i’m old & i smell and can’t walk straight cause i’m frail –
but it never fails:
i see a nice pair of shaved pits for sale
for the low low price of making imitation
traditional tribal sensual mouth wails
to attract a female in her time of estrus.
but before i can commit to a coherent sentence,
i’m at the computer, writing poetry as penance.

i’m sorry, i forgot to mention
my juvenile obsession
on which rests the condition that lays the basis
of the foundation for this present situation,
completely transparent & well-intentioned:

you see, i’m damaged –
that much is true:
i spend what little free time i have ejaculating
in the other room while my wife is napping.
my proclivity for indecency far exceeds that of matrimony.
“whatever helps you sleep til noon.”

and that’s O.K. –
they aren’t going to ding me for just one day
but regardless i’m still missing pay
for five-seconds of pleasure preceded by
two hours of play.
i don’t even know what else to say.

//jf 10.1.2022

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