sick day for sick ghosts but putting my plant in the windowsill

1.
two blades of my fan snapped off
and the lopped, open shape
spins with a hump,
hacks itself into a grunting rim of spirals.
i watched it all from my back,
sucking in my stomach
and pressing my breasts towards the ceiling.
i imagined offering them to the saint
who lobbed off her left melon in honor
of jesus christ and all that mystery.
maybe she just wanted to see inside herself,
figure it out for final's sake.
but, obviously enough,
nobody will ever know for sure,
even with the evidence,
written testimonies and damsels dying in opportunity
and all that.
instead we wonder with an exciting passion
and transfer the energy to our hot spots,
like the way cats sit in the sun or how
my fantasies are in everything.
i'll send off my secrets on that same mix-up someday.
just how i personally understand,
the biggest delay of all.

2.
two for touching is also sex
and one for fingers in
soaking mysteries.
i'd like my legs to look
like they did when i was nine
and bruises were but a charm
in the overcoat, bracing me for
a larger wan and waxing use of
what waited between them.

3.
why must attraction yank
at every inopportunity and,
supposedly, opportunities in the same?
almost all people grab me
and grapple with my funny tummy.
i especially enjoy necks
and other sinuous parts.
vests and shoes and terrible teeth.
i like the fat on backs
and the rise in pants
and the rub of children's' faces
on inner arms.
i like conversations that lack
dimension and car rides were no one speaks.
i suppose i fan myself for attraction,
spitting out odd facts for an adverse affect
of unappeal,
always lying to cover my embarrassing likes
and hopeful errands.

three sexy poems from the corner coffee shop. what's with me today?