By: Dylan Lenz

In Illinois I”ll get drunk

On Champaign in Champaign

With Polyanna and assorted TV guests from my childhood

They’ll leave and she’ll stay,

Naked,

I hope,

But I know that orphans, champaigne, and television are liars.

.

.

Bookends tie off dog earred mid-century shit.

John Barryman remains

With Bob’s Tarantula and while Poly undresses

I notice she’s really Stella because of the small black tattoo on her hip.

Thin,

Fog burns,

Myself now paranoid, I recall how I had made for the river:

.

.

Oh the spilt ink

On my hands.

Oh Stella still

On my mind.

Oh my dick

6.4 inches but I don’t know how big it gets when I come.

Of if I could

See into them as I come.

.

.

Stella is my favorite

I love her. But don’t tell her that. Please!

Champaigne escorts always seem so instramental, ornamental, and industrial somehow.

Two jobs each and a degree most often.

2008,

Put them,

On the street.

.

.

And Bear-Sterns

That short sale from $66.48 to four dollars eleven

Is still buying me nights with Stella and her converstaion

I pick her up and tell her she’s Polly.

Light,

More fog,

I undress her, finish, then fall asleep.