no. you cannot have this poem, because I am sick
of giving you them—when you put them, on your wall,
without reading. bullied brain
is sick of writing—love-man-poems—“hisfingertips”
to “isadog” eventually “kisses:likeapig”—
when words don’t drop televisions
out of three-story-windows—like I want to—
don’t punch balls into groin—like I ought to—
(but, that is crass, you say, to write balls,
in a poem, and I say, you are crass: to have them).
no, you cannot, because I am not speaking
at you—but, useless, when you’re used to not listening.
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