The Androgen Paradox

Forever my balding head has wanted to write you a poem.

But my balding head lives in fear of its own voice, feels limited by its lack of follicles about the crown and forehead.

Today, however, tonight, however, maybe tomorrow, however, my balding head is going to call you on the telephone, however, going to e-mail, however, text, however, Snapchat you a message, a missive, light and airy, fluffy with a bit of under-shine, going to pen you a poem about listening to The Jimi Hendrix Experience the night of May 23rd, 1991, while drinking Strawberry Hill, while drinking Purple Passion, while drinking Milwaukee’s Best, while drinking Mickey’s, while drinking Southern Comfort, while drinking Everclear, while puking from having drunk so much, every timid follicle nauseated, looking for a truck stop and a cup of coffee, my balding head holding its balding head in its hands as a waitress asks if everything’s OK and my balding head finally writes a poem about looking up at this tired creature balancing on a dirty, plastic tray two Diet Dr. Peppers with a pair of extra-long straws and blerbing back at her, “Should this be so tricky?” to which the waitress, God bless her, answers, “I’m not so certain,” before walking off to tend to her other, more hirsute tables.

The Androgen Paradox

6 thoughts on “The Androgen Paradox

Sock it to me

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