White People Eating White Food

You have not gone up against the plaster wall
with real plastic forks, lately, or ruined much dental

work with the metal studs hanging too fat and too quick
from your bleached Hanes, or let the overturn of your cock

puss. You lay in white sheets eating boxed potatoes
from a sectioned paper plate, watching reality’s

skinny Texan as he speed eats gummy worms, and slinkys
on commercial break, in a frame ad, then back to themed water

parks, with slip tubulature, like jellied condoms, like sweet
shower liners, such that the gaunt contestant stuffs

rough napkins inside his cheeks to keep. This is that kind
of room. It sounds like pink air conditioning. Such as the sort

is worn out. Who has white fun anymore. Pink
fiberglass, insufflation. When girls ring

the downward door, you venge binge on their teeth, sucking

and hollering fuck, come. You complain of night terrors.
It’s such faint panic. Such wicker basket frantic while the sound

of Amazon’s stick gets lost in the powdery mattress pads
like a Utah runway buffering white planes. You have large

salt bags bloating. a pillow between your legs, and a plated
grin. which burrows with its white mint, digs. eyes like peeled

white carrot. In each window, white mayfly, dead
infest, stuck to the top of your lip until you spit.