the story of my life of women not leaving me alone when I'm pissed off
and sticking around to poke and prod when all that's asked is solitude
and you can't walk away and give me some breath to time out this rage
on my own terms, alone, like I know how to do, specifically w/o you.
leave it to some slag on Jersey Shore whose comment I picked up passing
the television she left on before she left in my truck to not listen to me again.
this is not what I had in mind writing about, i.e. musicked song-along.
leave it to an extrovert poet of slam.
leave it in an envelope at the gate to finance my arms in defense of Islam.
leave it at the bottom in the magma of microbial millennia, pronged.
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