2.6.17

This is a poem about feeling bad for yourself, which is something I don’t recommend you doing. But if you’re going to do it, do it right. Take it all the way. 

I am a man of refined taste.

I can tell the difference between

the salt of tears and the salt of sweat,

from a twenty-six year streak of masochism,

which urges my tongue out of my mouth

to catch what may fall from my face,

how people catch snowflakes,

how children tease each other,

how infirmity loosens the muscles of the mouth,

how amateurs kiss.

Written around 12 noon, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA, while procrastinating from schoolwork.