“Aristotle was a homo.”-Richard Nixon
I smelled leather on his voice and searched his dialogue for cowhide uncensored.
I rolled my eyes until the motion petted the dark part of my skull.
Believed his silence to be a joke.
I licked the air to punctuate separations of muted inhales.
He squealed like a hog that reached orgasm.
We fell asleep to the smell of bacon frying
And the sound of gunshots echoing throughout the Narrows.
The morning after I awakened to a note on my pillow.
I read it with loud eyes.
Sometimes I’ll read it when I am feeling nostalgic about leather.
Like the moment I was arrested
And couldn’t help but stare at the tanned flesh
Of a proper authority,
Wondering if his skin would taste better fried.