the universe began with a bang.
my pants ended with three.
my girl lazzima asked for
"few bangs."
the copier jammed at
science is beautiful.

the big bang was god’s first fart.
we are the smell.
my pants?
a dying star.
lazzima?
an event horizons in fishnets.

god and bangs are metaphors.
the need,
i guess,
is blood on the receipt.
two,
lazzima is from bengal.
every bang needs a type of respect.
every bang demands its own silence.

science is a failed love letter.
the copier eats every third line.
the girl is a black hole
with too many surfaces to sign.

respect the bangs.
even the silent ones.
especially the ones
that shake the vending machine
at 3 am.