Joe Francis

that Cheshire grin
(his attorney’s suggestion) —
a porcelain dam
through which the rot
of a misspent life will never seep
while through the nation
his cameras creep
to seize and freeze
the swells of coeds,
in exchange for trademark logowear
sewn by third-world labor.

Birthday Reflections

On Thursday I turn 34. A third of a century falls from me into the abyss. A week from today will commemorate my now ex-wife's announcement of her intention to leave me, an act which effectively ensured that my thirty-third year of life would be a rancid one. And it has.

Needless to say, I find myself quite pensive, quite sorrowful. A tossed-away lover, a spurned husband, a misfit toy banished to its island trashheap -- all these things I have been this year.

I drink too much, a habit formed as a result of the vile events of the past year; I pine too much, a habit formed as a result of a lifetime spent out-of-step, alienated, alone upon the treacherous cliffs of acute perception.

I no longer expect vindication or "closure"; sometimes wounds close poorly, sealing within themselves an abcess that throbs and aches forever.