christopher shipmannerve_bios_6.htmlnerve_bios_6.htmlshapeimage_3_link_0
frank giampietrofrank_giampietro_nerve.htmlfrank_giampietro_nerve.htmlshapeimage_5_link_0

When I was smarter



I once drew a dead zebra on a bathroom stall.


I wonder if anyone ever wishes

there is a number to call.


The noose around the neck


likely dangles a deterrent.



Mosquitos bite

late parking lot nights

anyway it goes.


Hundreds and hundreds of kids continue

to check yes or no for love.


So much seems so much


easier than a bathroom blowjob.


So much seems so much better

than blood


but truck stops will never be


as sleazy as imagination.


The sun doesn’t shake his head

at my sexist pronoun


or for anything else.























In the grand scheme of things



a concert hall is full

of people singing


in their own marble

showers.


Another full moon empties

onto late night


pavement a thousand hipsters  smoking

cigarettes.


What if I leave and never

come back?


If I leave and never

come back


I could be going

to the grocery store for eggs


on a hung-over Sunday.


I could be hungry.  I could be

running around


an ugly lake tomorrow afternoon, or


using the bathroom

today.


A lone turd floats in the toilet.


If I flush it it will leave and never

come back.

vincent celluccivincent_cellucci.htmlfrank_giampietro_nerve.htmlshapeimage_7_link_0