Ramsey Scott

Ramsey Scott

                                               My Favorite Televangelist Demands that I
                                                                            Map My Discomfort
                                                                                 for One Year


My favorite televangelist declares that
            self-knowledge requires
            discipline and discipline requires
            repetition and repetition is
            discipline and discipline is the
            ability to glimpse change and to
            glimpse change one must know that
            change wears the
            same old garments.

My wife’s friend describes my
            son’s penis as
            not that small while I
            change his diaper
            in the park.

My wife enters the bedroom as my pinky finger joins
            three other digits inside my
            well-lubricated asshole leaving me

            seconds to suspend my
            self-examination hide the
            bottle of lubricant in the
            laundry hamper and explain my
            state of undress by declaring my
            intention to shower
            before bed.

My son’s babysitter washes dishes as I
            euphemize my desires via
            telephone to my
            drug dealer
            thus confirming
            cocaine’s legendary sway.

My favorite transsexual prostitute blames my
            inability to orgasm on the
            cocaine I snort between
            tonguing her nipple and
            suckling her perineum.

My veterinarian cites my dog’s weight as
            evidence that humans
            lack restraint.

My attempt to relieve my
            hemorrhoids’ endless throbbing ends in
            humiliation when I turn from the
            Xerox machine to discover that my
            co-worker witnesses the
            slow deep grind of my
            middle finger against the
            wrinkle-free seat
            of my chinos.

My mother-in-law proclaims my
            Peking Duck
            superior to her
            Mu Shu Chicken.

My wife inquires as to the
            bottle of lubricant she
            discovers inside a
            duvet cover amidst
            freshly-laundered linens.

My plan to preempt the tedium of my
            interminable commute ends in
            misfortune when the
            line I snort provokes my
            nostrils’ discontent and I stumble
            eyes watering vision blurred over a
            toy train.

My doctor jokes that I need not injure myself just to
            receive treatment for my
            chronically swollen anal veins as he
            diagnoses a
            sprained ankle.

My brother-in-law’s unexpected appearance at the
            coffee shop where I await my
            dealer’s belated appearance becomes
            unbearable as the sight of my
            crutches prompts him to recall
            loudly and in great detail his
            accidental interruption of a
            former roommate’s date with a
            strap-on-girded prostitute whose
            massive prosthesis plumbed the
            profundities of his roommate’s rectum.

My wife disparages my
            parenting skills accuses me of
            addictive behaviors and insults my
            taste in pornography while
            berating me for
            failing to refrigerate
            yesterday’s bottles of
            expressed breast milk.

My pillowcase receives the
            unconscious maps my
            bleeding nose draws as
            near daybreak I dream that my
            favorite transsexual prostitute’s
            cigarette breath stirs dried semen’s
            earthy scent from my whiskers.

My wife quizzes me over the
            flat razors hidden in the
            bathroom cabinet
            with which I divide my
            collections of white powder before
            blowing lines on the toilet’s
            porcelain lid.

My favorite transsexual prostitute’s
            cocaine-dipped finger
            inserted with pressure that
            almost passes as affection
            alleviates my
            hemorrhoidal suffering.

My wife spoils my plan to
            catch an hour of my
            favorite televangelist whose
            saccharine countenance espouses the
            healing powers of Jesus whose
            smooth hands massage the
            Good Book atop his
            antique desk she
            demands that I
            take my son
            to the park.

My cousin apropos I know not what to my
            wife recounts my family’s concern when at
            age ten my aunt found me
            eyes closed pants down dick in

            hand her strand of
            antique pearls
            in my mouth.

My son enters my home office pursued by his
            babysitter while I sit at my
            desk pants down computer playing
            Tranny Cumshots

            on endless loop.

My favorite televangelist digresses on
            humility as space and space as an
            awareness of measure and measure an
            awareness that one does not take up space
            so much as space take up
            everything one is not.

My car is ticketed while I admire the
            laminated authenticity of the
            coffee shop that my
            drug dealer prefers for its
            patent leather booths.

My son points to the red-rinsed
            rind of my
            foreskin as I
            exit the shower
            distracted by my
            inability to recollect the
            sensation when at last my
            favorite transsexual prostitute’s eyes
            close mouth slackens body stiffens and her
            cock spasms
            inside me.

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