Make your spine an aerial. No,
a urinal. No, an arrival. Tune in

you animal. Even my stegosaurus
can out-yoga you. He’s so supple

he bends like a hot daffodil.
You’ve got nothing. Zilch.

Take my memory foam.
Microwave this lavender

therapillow, that should do it.
Your voice is so handcuffed

is how it looks to me, every
tremulous bubble frisked

for sense. Screened by customs.
Explain what’s in your gut

if not an ounce of poetry
smuggled in condoms. Yes, orificer.

I blame it on my incestors.
This time I’ll straighten out. You’ll see.