The epitome of wasted

bourgeois middle-class ruffian

stuck to a ripped up plaid couch

struggling to exist. his eyes rolled back

in his head

when he said

my friends call me Kennedy—

            even though i’m not all that Catholic

            and i’m not all that handsome—i just

            sleep with Irish women

and i keep putting people up on the moon.

this sorta got me thinking:

because when i was thirteen

i had a heart

made out of pure milk chocolate;

i was going to be a major league baseball player

and now sometimes i lie down in the shower

and pretend i’m a goldfish

with brain trauma

sometimes i’m aristotle

sometimes it’s friday night and i’m stuck in a drug dealer’s sketchy apartment—

like i’m trapped

in some sort of cage. i spent

a year of my life

sitting next to those coked-out clever chicks

with their skinny hips and big lips

and deep deep

pockets. i adored

those sizzling hipsters

wrapped up

in cocktail polka-dots

always drifting around the world

looking for that certain perfect ratio:

where they’re coming from

to

where they want to go.