by Eric Borlaug
I’m sorry I never called
after our one night stand. I apologize
for prostituting myself
for notice— pretending to be caviar to the admirable.
I’ve stood you up before but
it will continue so don’t you worry.
I eat wine and drink
cheese just because and feel nothing
and fly Southwest
to fool around with Impudence in Jackson Hole.
I’ll take Vulgarity and Shock
out to the club, with which I have membership,
and go down on them
in the bathroom for no reason other than something,
before I take a portrait
with Virtue to hang on the wall above the mantle
so as to offend you
when you come to my dinner party on Sunday.
See you soon,
You tell yourself
that you must be true to yourself.
To deny yourself
the food that you love because you want your body
to impress those
you think you love would be exchanging your pleasure
for the pleasure
of others. You can go work out if you have to,
but wine and cheese
won’t kill you yet. Stop reading advertisements and
at the sushi bar.
I don’t believe in you.
You hardly even visit anymore
for hiding behind
the famous building tops of our skyline
you stand guard
against stars surreptitiously. Come back.
When someone wants
to spend time with me I sometimes say
that I’m writing,
and that I will call them later
but I won’t
and I am not writing.
I tell my roommate
that I am masturbating when I’m watching
so that I won’t have to talk to her.
If you ask me
I will deny having ever watched TV
since my youth.
It is not the best usage of time,
and forces me
to eat things uncooked.
What the hell?
You are always doing that!
telling my taste buds to eat wine and drink cheese
when you’ll just vomit
them into my hips to make me shudder
when an unknown lover
subtly slides their hands towards my enlarged glutes.
Please, go fuck the moon.
To Whom It May Concern:
to my ability to drink
is my ability
is to feel remorse and
to not commit
the act apologized for again.
disingenuity looks becoming
an impressive specimen
sold as sterling silver.
I do remember
that you are.
Your cliché cigarette let its ash
fall in to my cup, on accident I’m sure…
To Moon, Love, and Stomach,
For me this
self-loving space is—