Donkey PantsDonald Illich
The seat of my pants brays at the wrong moments. When I’m cuddling up to my lover on the couch, it hee-haws, reminding her of my asshole nature, fumigating love and affection with poison sprays of hoots. At school teachers force me to remove my droopy “donkeys” before they’ll begin their lessons, fearing a barnyard chorus when they talk about solemn subjects, Martin Luther King Jr.’s speech or the horrors of Auschwitz. Even when I visit mom she holds out tight Speedos I must wear, rather than assault her eardrums with derisive laughter. It echoes from my seams, the threads of my existence, when she tells me she loves me and I can’t believe.
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