kgb bar; a poem by tao lin

someone i previously knew only from the internet was pawing the lower section of my right shoulder

a small but growing part of my brain wanted me to make loud people admit to owning terrible paintings of bad sex

write down your email address on this little business card, my 30-year old friend, i just networked the shit out of you

the neurons inside my brain were networking the shit out of one another, for some reason, which was bad

a loud voice i previously knew only from bad sex was telling me i was only in my early 20's

the growing list of email addresses in my head was bad—a bad thing

your prose style is called, 'i want to have sex with women,' but you won't read that in the new york times book review

behind the face is the email address, behind the email address is a terrible painting of bad sex

i talked loudly about the etiology of my email address into the faces of six people, four of which were bad people

i am about to admit to this table of acquaintances that i stopped paying attention over fifteen thousand minutes ago

thank you for letting me network the terrible shit out of you

three out of five acquaintances lost interest in my face almost immediately after i sat down, and i thank them for that