Not starring lovable, furry old Grover, except for in the line that you are currently reading.

 

There is always at least a chance of a monster at the end

of the poem. It may not actually happen, or it may actually

just be lovable, furry old Grover (OK, I lied, here he is again,

guy’s pervasive), but the point is to think, right, to meditate

myself into a dark, airless, space, to sidestep. We’ve all

done some shit that we wouldn’t exactly put on a job application,

right (unless you’re Mother Teresa or something, but she

probably wasn’t much of a poet anyhow), drank to the point

that wounds started writing themselves onto your body like

calligraphy from an alien hand, and I know you’re “supposed”

to forget things like that or whatever, but the point is you’ve

already forgotten, this is about remembering now, right?

I will scrape ferociously at any lepromatous scab I can get

my hands on, and I only hope you’ll let me waste your time by

acting like there’s a nobler purpose. Shock? It feels good?

We’re together now, regardless, and I can always say

it was a work of fiction, that nothing lurks in those lazy

spaces between things, that the monster at the end

of this poem isn’t still hungry, isn’t me, better yet, isn’t you.

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