Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Twenty-eight
Spring 2012
Peter Schwartz

I don’t.

I don’t so much I even don’t in my sleep

so hard it wakes me up to more don’t.

This includes: eye contact, germs, handshakes, telepathic warfare, etc.

I crawl in the oven and wait for an invitation.

I yell boo at everybody because I’m paranoid as a bat.

I bake like a holiday, involuntarily.

I cancel my chances like a padlock.

There are just two possible beliefs in the world: confetti or deadlines.

People adapt to losses I can’t even pronounce every day.

I imagine them in limbo, strong and diseased

(but only by my weak definition).

My eyes will vomit my insides forever.

I’ll only have sex anonymously, at the top of a totem pole.

So yes, I’m furious I’m shaving my head to show you everything,

how my genetics stink like an orphanage.

My insides will regurgitate themselves for a very, very long time.

I’ll read books about nothing I want.

Grow a beard to hide my anger and intolerance.

Name you in descending order until you float again.

About Peter Schwartz

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