I Was A White Girl In A Crowd Of White Girls In The Park
The NSA did nothing after I left a document open on my laptop. In it, I changed your name to new and interesting terrorist organizations, redacted on the monitor using strategically placed strips of Sharpie permanent marker.
You worry one of those organizations was named the North American Woman Panda Love Association (NAWPLA), the ambiguity of whether it indicated a thirst for bestiality or unrequited interracial love. Don't worry, I wouldn't lie about your disdain for pandas, actual or imagined.
When the NSA maroons me on lonely islands made from black bags and moldy buckets, I will tell them your love had the accuracy of a mid-level COBRA soldier, always leaving behind loud and vigorous collateral damage.
I've Been To Jail, But Never Prison
Sadness is two parts Popov, one part Faygo Redpop poured over two ice cubes, stirred carefully. Sadness is your pillow case evicting the indention of your nose, the decaying orbit of your laziest lipstick. Sadness is a merkin colored as the American flag as it burns. Sadness is a deck of poker cards sans a Joker. Sadness is the suicide note shuffle of flip flops against Lake Michigan during Black Friday.
I Only Bleed Light PBR, Thank You
I like women with cold hands.
I have some Zima back at my place.
Maybe, you can chill a bottle in your palms
while I thaw your heart.
You are more precious
than The Afghan Whigs section
of my vinyl collection. I’ll let you choose
which album we can use
to make our best mistakes.
Pardon the height of my bookshelves.
I like to see the way you stretch
for good literature, admire the tautness
of your forearms. I’ll keep my lips unsalted,
puckered until the paper cuts emerge
from your fingers.
I’ll let you pick the pet name of my genetalia
from my collection of gently used
8-bit Nintendo cartridges.