Hot Girl Manifesto
Give me something simple
to say to the violets, something
fuzzy like the feel of
or of humming
in the shower, like a revving car
in the distance
or in the belly.
The slime of soap coats it:
the belly, my belly, the elephant’s
The brutalist theater is a home
except for when it’s a church.
And there’s a resounding collapse
of the pews in the maw of the church
except for when it’s so quiet that all I can think of
is lunch meat and masturbation
and the plastic crinkle of my old skin
when I tried to stuff its folds into
older dresses and snakeskin skirts.
I am all
grating sounds on tile.
I don’t know why I bother.
It takes one blowjob to know them all.
There’s a girl on the subway I’ve seen in pictures, her dolphin teeth asking to be unscrewed // I am worse today than yesterday // I grew my hair out for the 6 train, for the rush hour shuffle between cars, half a cigarette between stops // I’ve outgrown the romantics but atop my head, a bleach ring or almost-crown or other virtuous reminder // I would’ve been the next son of god had I known better // A window in motion is a prism, my face splitting into its ancestral condition // If Dolphin Teeth looks this way, I’ll sell the war horse // If Dolphin Teeth looks this way, I’ll spell I d o n ’ t k n o w a n g e r y e t between the folds of our soft furniture—tidally locked, we all are in love // when it suits us // I don’t know anger yet, my dust bag chest cracks, and if Dolphin Teeth looks this way, she will call me Useless, meaning Please