I'm growing a beard

Burnt Umber Stuff
Quarterback storm is upon us
and perchance unfinished documents
are still out there—first-hand accounts
of my past life out there
among unfinished songstress’ sticks,
and everyone who ever stared at my penis
out on the couch—

Again, never never never
assume military metaphors do not
apply—excuse yourself, Sir,
look at her in the eye and use
whichever book you choose
to throw. But deal with your past,
and whatever you do stick to your story—

revive yourself first, maybe—
slap your cheeks in the mirror,
restore the armchair honor you’ve earned—
and slip slip away, songstresslover—
just leave her alone and let me sleep!