30-SOMETHING VIRGIN MAN SKIPS AA MEETING TO ATTEND STREET CORNER SNAIL RACE
Snails can self-fertilize. They can race
a five-block marathon and bake to death
before they reach the finish line. They can wade
in beer puddles, fuck in beer puddles, fuck
a variety of snails in dog piss or beer puddles,
and never leave the same square of concrete.
A pregnant snail does not know it is pregnant
with 80 potential offspring. It does not
attain heightened awareness when it has intercourse
and, at the same time, splatters beneath somebody’s
sneaker. It does not care about the race, because
it does not understand the concept of victory.
Hypothetically, any given snail in any given race
outside of any given 7-11 can become the most popular snail
in America tomorrow, with the right photographer
and lighting. Hypothetically, a group of snails might have
an orgy atop a stack of drug-laced one-hundred-dollar bills
by accident and, after, feel no worse or better.
Through no fault of their own, snails are erotic creatures.
A snail shell photoshopped beneath the Mono Lisa’s chin
is an object of taboo sexual humor. Snail shells and adhesive
can warp an art gallery into a low-brow joke. Most adult snails,
before they perish, will perform intercourse with themselves,
a partner, or both. “Ah, snails,” I sigh, kicking the gravel
while my fist waves at the clouds. “I’m sick of ducking
in the shadow of my body’s history,” I admit
to the snail with Trailblazer painted across its spiral.
MY NEIGHBORS DELIVER HOMECOOKED MEALS AND FLOWERS
They’re sorry
about my thirty-fourth
birthday, and how I’m
a virgin still, and an alcoholic, but
three years of sobriety
strikes them as a significant
milestone. Because
sobriety and celibacy
are easy like brooding
by train tracks is easy, I have
no insight to offer, so I
accept their presents, give
my gratitude, and slam
the fucking door. I
hate them and the way
they appraise me like a
forest after a fire—like I’ve
graduated from victim camp and
break my burdens into bread. “Don’t
take this personally,” I say
to God, sprawled, like
a starfish on my rug, “One day, I
will embrace my neighbors
like the sum of their kittens
and casseroles. I will
welcome good intentions
like I welcome their Peace
Lilies & homemade
greeting cards.” When
I feel brave enough, I rejoice
in my foolishness, rejoice
my years void of great
revelations, which make it
harder to nap. Outside
my window, some asshole
with my name and number
tortures his tired violin,
but because I refuse to pity
myself, his guilt remains
unassuaged. His tears
water my rosebush. Thank
the stars. Lucky me.
