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Love Drunk Driving
Eric and I sitting
in his backyard,
the sun stretched
to afternoon potential.
Some clouds pass
and we have nothing planned.
Eric's working on his tan lines.
His arms are dark wine red
until the shoulders
where all color is scared ghost white.
"Fuck man, you know what's good?"
He pauses, taking a sip of Bud Light.
"Driving drunk."
Eric isn't a profound guy.
He once bragged about farting
fifty-four times in a row,
the trick being to stick your ass
directly up in the air
while on all fours.
"Seriously man, I love driving drunk."
Maybe he's onto something.
There's a dream like danger
to driving drunk,
landscapes passing in slow haze.
The feeling of being so alone
yet comfortable at the same time
with no place to go.
Eric presses two fingers
against his pasty chest,
leaving faded red outlines.
"But I love farting too."
The Greeks said
everything in moderation.
Fifty-four is a lot of farts.
The Hook
Yesterday some pictures
came in the mail
from an ex-girlfriend
I hadn't seen in years.
They were pictures
taken during college
and I remembered each one
except the last photo,
a black and white shot
of her on all fours
wearing a thong and pigtails,
which too a few minutes
for my memory kicked in.
I tried masturbating,
my free hand caressing
the glossy curve of her tight ass
but gave up
when I started thinking about college.
I missed her.
I missed us.
And I really hoped
I did take that picture.
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