Daughters, Ballparks, Or Neither

Of course you probably don't wanna
fire on these, these manta rays I call
"guns." They swim until they arrive;
they swim until they're
done. You know where I'm staying, Starks?
I'll get you that platinum-laced Jersey at
the stroke of midnight, ya heard? Eesh, cameras.
Everybody hates cameras. Just look at them,
looking at you, taking your picture.

Eesh. Anyway today
I grew some words, like celerity, which means "rapidly."
Like rapid celery with celerity these celebrities wither
away with amphetamines and not eating. Tiny,
invisible hair covering their bodies like brineshrimp,
(which is One Word in my dictionary, harumph, yaaaas).
Bulimic is the new bucolic, transplanted like a houseplant
into the cemetery, cool and austere and stripped-down
and unaugmented, as well as serene, not-to-be questioned.
But with all this said it's hard to believe we will continue to
afford the dead the physical space they seem to deserve
when all the living ones keep writing petitions and retching
sweaty violence toward our daughters and
let's just keep them all apart, anyway. Separate but Equal
brand Mouthwash is good enough for me. My gums sparkle
clean and pink health and my sheath never quivers, because
I don't have one, because I don't need a protective covering
over my unit, because I'm a man, MAN, and my testes
hang out like this and my huge Andromeda straw just lays
there, gathering legend, because sperm need to just chill,
brother? Can you feel it? All that biology so thick you gotta
put on some anti-shades to see through all the layers of complexity,
so complex that no sarcasm can put us to sleep tonight; instead,
it's Pure Quality. And an understanding--
as simple as, let's say, "Lay still now for eight hours!"--
of anatomy and miracle glands.