Jason Hardung

Poet Fucker

I slept next to her
in the same bed for a week.
Each time I looked over
I became disgusted
at all her lies, the guys she fucked to be a better poet.
“Even my cock doesn’t have that much magic,” I told her. “Keep writing.”
The way she breathed, the nocturnal language she spoke,
the way she kicked her legs like somebody running from home
blamed it on insomnia, never mentioned the Adderall
then would get up and paint her nails over and over
her eyeballs were about to fall from the sockets
and her voice, more metal than bus brakes at 5am.
I couldn’t watch anymore.
I turned the other hip towards the window
watched hustlers in long coats work tourists in Pershing Square,
crack heads strutting like pigeons
scanning for dropped rocks on the sidewalk,
a man wore a garbage bag as a tutu
pirouetting for a god that never answered his prayers,
a Chinese woman crouched on the sidewalk to take a shit
wiping with a brochure a missionary just handed her.
I wished I was out there
where the insane
know exactly what they are.

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