slick literary journal
he writes about food, that's his schtick.
he turns grocery lists into poems.

trails of proper nouns like recursive functions
instead of saying "i am writing a poem about
not understanding why i put in line breaks"
i have to say "i peel the papers off in layers" or
"bottles, silence, curtains of stars, a guitar, a teakettle".
so that i can disguise my uncertainty inside a list
of the contents of my room.

or let me feign some moral indignation,
some esoteric disgust at the present state of
the literary scene, the sound of my voice,
the mundane nature of something something something.

everyone loves a slick sex red
but the smell of acetone is a turn-off.
let's talk about what happens when
lipstick gets on your teeth
or your job or your wife
or your i don't know what.

this poem is a fraud
i'm just making it up.
or maybe it's a rorschach test.
it's two ships sailing into each other
no no wait away from each other
oh fuck it they all just look like butterflies to me.

things i can never share with you:
the smell of the hallway with the vending machines.
i used to like dr. pepper but now the taste is too sweet.
the smell of the school gym after a dance,
or how 'bout now
it goes a little somethin' like
five six seven eight
he writes poems about his childhood
and how he doesn't miss it,
but they are mournful sounding.
maybe that's his schtick.

the door swings shut on this
mousetrap eyelid.
let's go to bed,
respectively.