conjugation : wanting to know
I wished I could be thankful that I got you to hold my head up when I could not sit up.

Like a searchlight in the parking lot of hell, a fire in a trashcan in the rotten air, you said you will walk down the garbage pile with me because you had nothing else to do and you haven’t done anything for a while.

Dirtball eyed and soggy soggy headed we puked into the fire and pissed upon graves yet to be dug. And pussy hair brushed grass as I pissed like a man and you like a woman.

Sunny sunny beery pee glistening in foggy sunlight, were we younger then or was this just another yesterday?

From the swamp land to the ghettoes of the city I wandered trying to get away from my wish master’s curse, my mom’s word ringing in my head, be careful what you wish for.

By the end of all the fucky fuck and a fetus in the blender we tried to try to get along and we did, we tried. Smokey trashcan fires give us the warmth any family needs, the soot any chimney needs and the plastic-y acridness of early morning wake up call.

It’s the only thing that wakes me up from a dream I keep having of you: sooty matted hair with dry scaly skin spitting at the sky, a mad woman and naked, fucked by perverts , peed on by dogs, shitting and peeing till no one lets you sit anywhere but by the dung heap, and no one throws you a coin and then jeepers I say ‘O my god I still wanna fuck this thing’ and someone says don’t fuck her now or you will breed a jackal as it rains in the sunny afternoon.

Anyways you are my wife and I am your doormat.
I hate you and I wish you would die.
I wish we both die.

And my mom’s words echo in my head, be careful what you wish for.

I learned a word sometime back, many years back, and I wished I knew what it means, the word was decrepit.

I wished I could fuck someone who cared enough not to care, with feelings like dizzy giants with altitude sickness.

Conjugation, I learned that word in French class; I had wished I knew why we had such words.

Fire is like sex, and fire is alike in the trash can or in a sun flare, sex is all the same whether you do it in the name of fire or some other oddball fuck up you invent: tritely farted words like love, lust and frustration.

And rising in my spine is an army, roaring screaming baying for blood, baying for the blood, like a wolf, of every single mother-fucking mouth that said to me the word wish.

And my mom’s words echo in my head, be careful what you wish for.

I shudder.

This is all that is, and I know now I am your conjugation, the second person singular of you.

Heap it all on me and I will keep throwing it in the air and we both can spit at the sky and laugh at the rain where no one notices the contrast of tears and the water; the art of conjugation; now I know.