Mixers

i can’t tell you
why
but I just can’t seem
to homogenize
blend
fit in
I don’t seem to have
the right
consistency
I always sink to the
bottom

the therapist that
thinks I’m a killer
says
“you don’t mix well,
do you?”
no
I’m no fan of
dockers
my socks
never match
and I always rinse
with knob creek

I don’t know shit
about small talk
I couldn’t care less about
the weather
if my balls
itch
I scratch

dilettantes
idiots
fried out academics
grad students with
tits
making round heads
square
amidst the little
sandwiches
olive piercing
umbrellas
and wine in plastic cups
shaped like champagne
glasses

it all makes me
itch
lust for whisky
chong joints
and short skirts with
long legs
I don’t mix well
but I have a
good time

J. Masuda © 2004
art
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