On Monday You Feel Like A Naked Burt Reynolds
On Monday you feel
like a naked
Burt Reynolds
like a 70’s magazine
fold out
excessively mustached & hairy
Tuesday’s still hairy
but methodically lacking in that sweaty mustache feel
propelled by desperation the missing’s worn inside out
and doesn’t fit right to the point where your toe nails feel naked
and the sun sets like a dirty magazine
when you learn she’s recently dating some jerk-off name Burt
Wednesday becomes Hate Burt
Day, puppet-name-posing-as-a-human-name-hairy
makes-a-living-editing-her-favorite-magazine-
big-foot-swifty bastard, you don’t feel
well go home from work early sit on the couch semi-naked
while drinking bourbon and watching reruns of Lost you pass out
Thursday you spend paddling without
a rowboat trailing behind the wake of the S.S Burt
which based on these cruel winds has totally seen her naked
by now, before midnight you watch a couple Ray Harry-
hausen movies and while listening to That’s The Way I Feel
by the Johnny Burnette Trio you send a snotty email to that fucker’s magazine
Friday morning she instructs you over the phone
to leave the magazine out of this
says she understands how you feel
and all that but Burt
has a hairy
temper and if you contact him at work again he’ll beat you naked
Saturday’s spent trying to figure out what ‘beat naked’
exactly means, you smoke cigarettes next to the corner magazine
stand cursing the sunlight because it makes your knuckles look hairy
and try to scrape the facts out
of your skull, that on the phone she’d called Burt
her boyfriend, dead pigeons scream: you know how they feel
Sunday you wake up naked and out
of your mind vowing fuck magazines! fuck Burt!
fuck Harry Houdini! I’ll escape this! (I’m over it), fuck the way I feel
