Friday 9/28/2007 12:50:00 AM

Sex is a souvenir.

The eel was looking quite dapper in his vagina tuxedo. A mucous bow tie knotted perfectly under his collar. Inscribed like tiny scars into every word he tried to say. His tongue made of molasses. His eyes spilled into his head at auction.

No bids.

Following the lotteries in her head. The junkyard is where she found her prettiest dress. Stone pantyhose. Lopsided heels. Flat-chested economics buy more stocks than they sell.

The hunt. Coming apart. The selling like cellophane over her thoughts. Everything sealed inside a transparent armor. They know. They see who I am.

But can't feel it.

The sweat of dirty underwear dripping from the sealing. Failing staples in this thin catalog. Pictures of us in clothes we've never worn.

The eel in his hybrid car. Looking for a gas station. He could go the rest of the way on the feet he doesn't have. If only they were there.

The crack of irony's whip all he can hear in ears he doesn't possess.

But he is listening with all his other parts. And pieces.

Nothing is ever as good as the salesman said it would be. But then again, it doesn't have to be for us to want it.

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