Uncertainty, come and sit in my lap.
Close the circuit of pleasure
between us, let me
rub the small of your back, let me
stroke the shocking fuzz of your electric fur*,
let me fry you a pork chop, let me
watch your face change shape, watch me
tear you open like a Christmas gift.
Uncertainty, I have some questions for you:
Who was it that licked the sweat off my skin?
What is it that pain demands of us?
When I thought it was pudding but my mouth surprised me with ketchup and I gagged.
Where the hell did all of my dread go?
Why am I writing when I could be lying face-up in this here creek?
How is there always just enough?
What’s mine?
What’s yours?
What can we share?
Everything?
Is that not self-obliteration?
Is it not heaven?
Uncertainty, come and sit in my lap. Or better yet,
let me sit in yours. Or better yet,
put a dog collar on me,
feed me peanut M&M’s by hand, come with me
to co-sign a lease
on a brand new car.
Peel me like a grapefruit.
We are common-law married and
you’re never leaving
so I might as well make room
for you in my chest,
zip you up in my favorite hoodie,
buy you a toothbrush.
Uncertainty,
your breath stinks.
*e.e. cummings, “i like my body when it is with your body”
tacohole dot net 