You, you, you, you’re
Me, My, Mine, Ours
We’re the selfish lovers
of post-pot generations
planted in the earth
with chemicals and
innately raised to hope that
things will get better,
knowing that nothing can fall
into our laps because we’re always standing
opportunities are, instead,
launched with deadly velocity at our crotches,
my balls scrambled
into a cross of blood and pre-developed semen
your fallopian tubes folded over
like an old, hot, green garden hose in the Idaho summer.
The selfish lovers lament,
I’m slinging words into an ocean off of a cliff face,
looking for some phrase that will help you.
She’s slinging lattés into the maw of a city that
prays for a base of ignorance,
hoping to find a rosetta that could spark a conversation.
Feeling the underappreciation
Feelint left out to soak in the lightning,
Feeling it all for those who don’t feel it at all.