Would you taste a bit
of this tea; we have many hours
to go before our trip ends
and then, once again, you may sleep.
The strong man tells me you've
got muscles underneath that bone--
What did you have to do to impress him?

That's a joke, son.

I can hear on your voicemail--your speaker
is far too loud--that you've been rejected
again. That sucks. Hard part of life.

I would, man. I would give every bit.

You get depressed when you drive through
ritzy neighborhoods, don't you? You know
you'll never be able to have one
of those for your wife and kids--Just one?
She's beautiful. I've seen some ugly
before, heads misshappen and just plain
funky. But that's neither here nor there.
The beautiful home is myth. Every home
has dust in the corners, spiders sneaking in
between the plastic slats of your computer monitor.

True story: once had a rat living in my computer,
fit right through one of those expansion slots without
a cover. Those chips get warm, I imagine. I would.

People ask why I don't write poetry--I can't call
myself a poet, a pretentious ass, talking
about feelings when there's so many more real things
worth talking about that we can all know.

I ain't never been interested in feelings. I got
'em, I'm sure, but I'd drop them all and devote
myself to pain just to make her happy.

You gonna drink that?