Poem.

Oh happy chance to've made

your life a feature loony tune,
and the gross product, a pearl

of cum on a cactus, does not bloom.

-Matthew Henriksen

imagine Detroit goes
blat-a-blat-blat at
the stacks of cash we use
as houses now that

this is the beginning
of a poem about the spot
on your breast
i thought was lactation

i thought of because
home is the covetable
lump of glands and flesh
my face sticks in summer

‘cause i carried a watermelon
fruit slimes over
a moustache’s past hovering
bees in a silken pillow-

case i’ve hewn from
light your face a bulb—
an onion of rubbings of
stung and pulled in

half wiggling while teasing
some half black fuzz in
the throes of Detroit losing
pistons and cum.