“Perhaps you had me in a yeast, doctor. Perhaps I haven’t even grown.
Am I not often blindfolded upon request? Don’t you devote yourself to your blindfold?
They’ll never wrought the stethoscope lethal enough to really hear me.
We free as our drugs tell us? Are they potato-sized? Is taking them like pouring coffee
on a plant? When my rashes spread I pay attention to the world.
Would you call that a fellow who partakes? You’re the type. Everyone in their symptom.
He wheeled out the tiny politicians I could pick for which suppository to platform
committee standards with, especially those who counter. I went stern.
People needed a leader with claws. People were only good for organizing produce.
No more practical haze from the indecisive and desired.
Anything to do with the law is financially subjective.
Blasphemy is the gift your god will leave you with when it goes.
“Such cuties,” he stoked his pride on the curvature of jowls.
“That windup bitch I send your way defect? Let’s play some golf to that.
I built I’m Sorry when I was feeling exceptionally cruel.”
“That’s my wife you’re referring to. I’ve seen her leak.”
“She’s no one’s wife. Or whoever’s. I concocted her from ringworm.
From the dross inside a cubed automobile.”
“I think you don’t like women. I think you date your socks.”
“I admire anything that invalidates its abuser.”
“If you can’t bleed on the spot you were never abused.”
Public Apology #1
I hold office with the perturbed legit.
Crosschecked by the pretense schools occur.
I slate my senate on the basis of enamel.
We dole cheese in card form.
I have gone spoiled in the zipper like an internet.
Some become better examples of the playpen.
Have I slurred my public? Whatever the tan,
I assure you you aren’t mint.
Whose booster seat won’t glow?
Are your boxer shorts departmental?
I can loiter through any audit.
No health without credit.
You’ve been burping in your welfares sans consequence.
So what about who I kill?
You have cobbled me from your own bivouacked expressions.
That’s why you’ll always redeem this fucking frown.
It makes me sick when anyone corresponds.
Your foreskin’s hopscotching in my crown.
Yes, I tool my soda by the clitoridectomy.
Dontcha wanna drink with me?
Sean Kilpatrick is published or forthcoming in Boston Review, The Quietus, New York Tyrant, BOMB, Columbia Poetry Review, Fence, evergreen review, Sleepingfish, Hobart, and is a Best American Essays 2014 notable. Anatomy Courses (2012) was co-written with Blake Butler. His first novella, Sucker June, is due out May 2015.