Whenever I lose who I am,

I always ask love.

We arrange over the phone

to meet at the library.

She loans me her card.

We check out the KAMA SUTRA.

Take it home; try it out.

She nearly, getting into this one

position, breaks her neck;

while I conserve junk

to give later to Jesus.

She blushes; shakes her head;

admits most men suck in bed;

and that’s statistically that.

But before you hand me my

hat, show me the door –

did you check the shredder?

Maybe you got so horny, you

thumbed it through the slot.

Actually, I hear shredding identity

can prove orgasmic.

Gone and done in a nano, of course;

but this is a different neurosis of a horse.

Takes no time to know overamped

lust shorts consciousness out.

My ego, you see, ate my ID. But

no sweat, I’ll just scare love up.

Gotta be in here somewhere.

Here, this thread goes maybe

with the address? Can you help, love, glue back together the shreds?     

Willie Smith

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