Friday, April 8, 2011


An atavistic sandwich sidled up to me
On the eve of my ascent to the English throne.
The timing struck me as suspicious.
I felt somewhat lackadaisical
For the rest of the day.

I decided to leave town.

To parachute from a plane
Into a desert named after a famous Baltimore Oriole
Seemed like an honest goal.

Lucky for me,
Eddie Murray himself talked me out of it.

These days I can be found with my pants down,
My philtrum waxed, my orbit declined, my strap-on
Buttered, my concerns addressed, my address
Concerned, my small arms trained
On my one true love—

May her file be forever up-to-date.

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