Grosby’s Fart

As I was walking through the laundry room

I saw a stack of old belongings.

Longing for dirty thoughts of wrong things,

the mages of distant lands loom in the distance.

Like the stained bottoms of beautiful lingerie,

like the empty wine glasses the morning after,

like the clean dishes, still sitting unused on the kitchen table.

I waited to be useful again.

But instead I was Ann Coulter.

I was a dead Gadhaffi, a rat hiding in a Libyan hole.

Licking a finger to stick it in holes for a finger lickin’ liberation stiff in my soul.

Then I forget my yesterdays.

When I’d take my laxatives while listening to NPR.

One more line, another shot.

I’m not dead.

Pizza suxxx.