Hi, I'm Not Happy and I Don't Know if This is Going to Work Out (Wilkes Barre: July 2012)

No fun.

Every night,
The same texts 
Promising a good time
Are sent 
Into an outdated object  
With wires, plastic, 
A one megapixel camera,
And a SIM card.
It feels more like a guilt trip.

Every night.

I respond 
Enthusiastically
Using general statements, like:
"Word," 
"That sounds awesome," 
"Oh," 
"Yeah def,"
"Uh oh,"
"Ok,"
Or  "Can't wait to see you in 15."
But I can wait,
Which is why I am about take a shower
And procrastinate through the whole process.
Forgetting cell phones exist.
Forgetting the outside world.

No fun.

You should be here 
Cleaning the film of dissatisfaction
Off both of our skins.
Faces frowning under the shower head 
In the streams of placid water.
Breathing in steam.
This tub is too small
for the both of us to take a bath
Together. 
Standing.
In close proximity.
I'm probably going to get hard,
Look down, look at you, and look down again
Skin stretching.
Distorting emotions.
Fuck.
Embarrassed, because I wasn't even thinking about sex;
I was thinking of a scene from this tv show
Where this puppet ape gets pulled over for a DUI
And tries to get out of the ticket 
By pointing out that fleshies started every war in the world.
It made so much sense.
Not the hard-on.
Or your reaction to it
Because none of this is even really happening.
I'm a compulsive liar.

Every night.

Someone should cauterize my mouth 
With a superheated belt buckle in the shape of an eagle
In mid screech.
Beak open.
All talons and wings.

No Fun.

Someone should unplug the ethernet cord 
From the backs of our eyes so 
our minds' wouldn't have to process as much information.
We can finally disconnect.

Every night.

Someone should break my legs against the bed post with a sledgehammer so I don't have to worry if my yellow t-shirt will match my black cut-off shorts.

No fun. Every night.
Every night. No fun.

"How was your past month?"

"It was rough, man."