His Creepy Gorilla Suit

It's been drinking again.
Hungover.  I taste its fur in my mouth

even at this distance.  Naturally,
he's not around to massage my feet.

Or scrub off the molds from
the shower curtain.  His molds,

his wall decor.  I can't own anything
I don't want for a reason.

Like his creepy gorilla suit
with its faux fur and moving eyes.

They say, an eye can roll over
and die.  On the other hand,

my fondness for animals
excites even me sometimes.

I like raisins as well.
And knee scabs.

It uses its imagination
on me, too.  There are stapler

wires in my hair.  I am its
little fetish doll.  I am a house fire

in Seattle, an empty jar
of petroleum jelly, a fingerprint

on the mirror.  It watches me
watch it watch me as I zip up.

Later, I find hair between my legs.
I walk away, looking at cars.  
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