Shooting your load at least

three times a day

in the same way you

shoot your poems.

Hot and mad, burning

behind the eyes,

the maniac’s grin,

the words no one’ll know

but you. These

dirty nothings are

all your own,

you speak them to yourself

over and over as

you rub it out, as

you work it.

A gush, a spill, a flow

everywhere. Just

a madman in this room now.

Speak to your hand if it

makes you feel better.

Come on!

Everybody does it!