panthophobe

if I could return to the moment
the exact moment in my past
when I picked up something
a bug a rash a gash
that would come back later
to intimate murder in my ears
then

I would tell myself
loudly at the top of my voice
to sheathe my dick before
any impulsive excursions
into nooks and crannies
and happy valleys that promise
moist rewards
but

knowing myself (but really,
who knows himself young
old or in-between?) I’d
probably stab away anyway
bumping grinding sweating
until I achieve the requisite
nirvana and become one
with one two or even three
and

I’d turn to my future self,
tell the motherfucker
to take his news
his gloomy views
back back forward
to the lonely hospital room
of his lugubrious affliction
because

what matters now
what matters most
is the intoxicating contortions
the non-Euclidian exertions of
the woman
the woman
the woman beside above
and behind me.