None of the blades in Al Sharpon’s stomach bump the lattice work of his slick back to pink oil status and he will not stop taking pictures in his undershirt in DC bathrooms and then I had this spare kimono from an era of clemency and flea markets and the urge to burn the dried roses with it before they bloom again and as apathetic as liver thistle after 2 AM I believe him when he says it was vitiligo and not just bleach and good no lye relaxer after Embassy Suites we couldn’t go back to the Best Western in Newark where I fell asleep drunk in the middle of kissing him and woke up to cash and an empty robe hiccups cold tea his shoes full of snow on the ledge of the balcony
