Reading Lunch Poems while I have a cold sandwich. There are no
mistakes about life. I reach for a body in the dark solitude
of poetic masturbation. Myself
(I should’ve put more lettuce in this sandwich), the word
“myself”
                     appears
                                             like a door that slams upstairs
                                                                     in the garden.
It’s just some ghost —I say to
the body that ruins the
notion of truth (my bed feels unfulfilled). O’hara
brings out the worst in memories. My
cold naked ankles (I forgot the mayonnaise) remember past
emotions of lustful miscarriages and your face colored by wind.
 
Nothing worst than eating bread dry.