I write into the hole, throwing paper after the liver, the onion, the Shitake mushrooms on

marbled rye, wanting to become wise without the burden of discontent.  No…without the

luggage of suspicion, I mean.  Or could it be the load-bearing age of skepticism?

Like Fox Mulder, I desperately want to believe.  Problem:  I do it too frequently, ergo

seeing aliens of want emerging from my closet every evening.  Anal probing can happen

at any time, without warning.

I hunger but there are clubs where girls aren’t allowed.  Face-down, I enter backwards

and hope for the best.  I hope.