one bump two bumps: a cocaine anti-ode

another night like every night

another game of ring around the nostril

the dope is coke

the coke is dope

fish scale phylum

and our bait hooks are bloody

what we haul in we never throw back!

for now it’s still spring

but i’m married to january

a dancer with the pasties to prove it

we met in the frozen aisle

when i was cannibalizing my dreams

all i wanted was to eat

all she wanted was to share

above a broken dream

where these two wants converged

we tore at flesh

the dream screamed until it didn’t

and i liked it

and she likes me

our shopping cart has squeaky wheels

but we push that muthafucka

we don’t eat for days but

we fucking eat for days

one gram two grams three grams

she told me: i can’t get the smell of onions

out of our car, her mom’s impala

on road trips she says all i see is dollar signs

and you can count a few entendres

i search for a word to rhyme with entendre

my attitude is soft core porn

hers is drama

one out of two ain’t bad when every day is monday

except when it’s not

and old man sunday shows up, eucharist cup

flushing my teeth free

from the bread-of-his-body

the church dense with disbelief

four grams five grams

i need another bump

she needs another bump

i tell her: it’s the same for all of us

though none of us are the same

angry shades of white and unwhite

shades of brown they call black

and vice versa

faces twisted like puckered assholes

blowing shit over a smack on the ass

a needle in the arm, turkey baster baby

she says: how can we reconcile when words are worthless?

when tongues are bucket brigades

dumped flora and fauna into your ears?

i tell her: our best intentions are but a minstrel show

a richter bump before the big one hits

and all of us hiding under our desks

praying they will take the weight of the falling world

i take another bump

she takes another bump

this is a nightmare

but maybe it’s figural

maybe this is all in my dirtydirty mind

and i’ve been tracking mud into the house

maybe life is only a positive test

a folding chair

and a daisy chain of human misery

chanting: it’s not a death sentence anymore

it’s not a death sentence

it’s cashing in your chips to leave before lunch

it’s turning in a bad hand and calling god a cunt

six grams seven grams eight grams

bump