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.