2006-07-05

I’m busy drafting an epic poem about my brother's visit called “He Picks His Nose in Front of Other People.” It begins with a sensual homage to his girlfriend’s boobs:

One boob is smaller, a pink
runt who could not find a steady
place to suck at God’s hand
(work in awesome wordplay here
about how “God’s dugs” cannot rescue
us from the eventual grave—oh man
this will win awards) but grew up anyway
to be a peerless truffle pig with a celebrated
snout, if by truffle pig you mean
rooter-out of earthy dongs and if
by snout you mean the flaring
reversed snorthole of the nipple…

and goes on to chronicle the adventures of a houseguest who a) picks his nose in front of other people, and b) supernaturally crapped a baby roach into a corner of my bedroom, I am convinced, for how else could it have gotten there?

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