Note from:
smiley face
burning shuddering
deep in my pocket
remarks highly on
my ass
in these pants

back pockets
embroidered
with obtusely angled
denim rays
armored from
sex shrapnel
by laminated access cards
and a holographic
bus pass

my ride
isn’t on the schedule written
by self-described dykes
and pathetically giggling
prom kings
love streams
through iPods and dreams
filling my nightmares
with redundant
back-beats

my lips
detect a hint of plagiarism
in your kiss –
so urgently
hesitant
leaving
an aftertaste
past due
for a skinny dip
in the nearest pint glass

my climb
is on whichever
bus comes my way
for none
travel far enough