today, when I was
speaking to you, I felt like I was talking
with all of fifteen tongues
separate voices with
slick, ridged bodies
climbing over each other inside my
mouth like frantic, roseate
blush-wine salmon leaping
upstream, all in
a collective tizzy

(and it was frenetic and ferociously
beautiful and your mom
would have fucking loved it)

standing stock still on a
landmine, heavy-thunking Docs facing
a double-barreled wall; cheeks turning
puce, all tongues fighting,
toreadors with the taste and texture
of crisp Anjou pears

seven of them were
clamoring over each other, trying to impress upon you
how intelligent I was.
six were holding
each other down (three sets like
single bonds or thumb wars) indecisive
on whether or not to inform you that,
yes, you have a very nice
beard and, [oh] yeah,
you[r ass] do[es] look good in those
fencing whites.

one hid itself at the shingled roof of my mouth, fighting
off my cold headache
(a result of the many frigid lavations
being taken simultaneously in
every spare chamber of my filthy wit)

and one made a mad dash
back down my throat, leaping up
to brush-touch my tonsils before darting
back into my stomach.

1.17.11