Ode to Pig Sweat

That feeling when the poppers hit.

Rush rush of Isobutyl Nitrite & other

mind-and-ass-expanding chemicals

only ever used off-label—huffed—only

nominally meant for artificial nails, VHS heads,

sticky labels not yet off enough, sundry

stubborn residues. The residual warning, hilarious,

unusable, to please avoid prolonged inhalation in

confined areas, as if this horny-fucker juice weren’t

made for nostrils, their confined area,

lung-to-blood-to-brain pipelines right above

the mouth, asking for it: sloppy kiss, throbbing dick,

all the amorous ammo the body can bare,

unload, put on gaping view. Wanted. Only. Now.