Sometimes I feel like a vampire.
I’ve never come close
to killing anyone but I have held

my cock in my hands, unleashed
it like a fire hose
or basilisk, like a little boy’s metaphor

for weaponry, and it was private
and pleasurable as murder
if you prefer that sort of thing.

Tiberius didn’t like throwing
his betrayers off a cliff
but he did it anyway. That’s what you get

for ruling Rome from an island.
Masturbation suits me just fine.
When I was 12 I pulled off my shorts

underwater and masturbated against
the jets in my aunt’s pink
hot tub. We had turkey sandwiches

and Pepsis shortly after. The blossoms
this time of year
are magnificent, especially in Dallas,

where Oswald harpooned Kennedy
into our consciousness
and my left hand unzipped

my pants like a curvy salsa dancer,
beckoning with her dark
nipples and smallish mouth,

throw away your sins with me,
little emperor, take up
your arms and come to mama.

Jay Nebel‘s poems have appeared in American Poetry Review, Narrative, Ploughshares, Tin House and other journals. He lives in Portland, Oregon with his wife and two children, and drives a juice truck for a living.