Plucking Glass w/Tweezers

by Devlin De La Chapa

the sweat of cold beer slips through my hand,
Kool cigarette ashes feather over beige
shag carpeting at 11 in the morning
her body lies naked big tits black
snatch blond hair red nail
polish on fingers and
toes, my teeth grind
my head unwinds

last night rewind
a dingy motel room
lots of booze, horny broad
in carnal systematic positions
this was not the road I’d wish to
take to poetic perdition; I am fucking up
these hands penning words on blank hangover
canvases to create distorted fragments of poetic pornia

wood spent missing linoleum is what my blood-shot
eyes grasp as I reach across the nightstand for
the stenograph but the late morning sun
creaking through red sangria curtains
blinds my sight, warms my skin,
dries my mouth, my big head
throbs as I cannot bare to

think about the remnants
of red nail glass chips embedded
in both ends of my shoulders where her
fingernails had raked across my skin in the heat
of last nights streescapade so I spend the day plucking
glass with tweezers, true I may not be remembered as the
poet vying for the next Great American Poem but somewhere a
famed poem will be penned of a poet plucking glass with tweezers