bubble tea in your belly, we roll together
on warm sheets, not washed in a while.
days like these, you find fun where you can
in times like these. laughter–‘please,’ she
said, so you do, or rather, I do. I did. we could
run away just me and you, go to New Zealand
or Canada: let’s do it, let’s become a Cole Porter song,
a Joni Mitchell jam. I haven’t had a case of you yet,
but a few bottles is enough to fuck me up. I’ll always be in the bar
and you should know that about me. at words pathetic
I’m so poetic, it’s grating, I’m sure.
tapioca is good in tea
but that’s about it, we both agree.
take it easy flatfoot jack,
and stop blaming it on the bossa nova. the old school
was bad and we all know it, and they knew it too.
the climate today is women and those
who don’t believe them. monsters among men,
or maybe the latter is just made of the former.
‘god only knows,’ Brian Wilson spills out, but
god, I can’t muster a smile today. anyway,
her boot would look good on a throat,
as she burns the house down, chewing on
a cigar, sipping from a nalgene filled with tears.
light it with that torch she always carries. flames need fanning these days, it seems.
fireflies mate at dusk, but they seem thirsty now, an hour from midnight.
lightning bolts about in the clouds above, there is no thunder. my fever has
if everything happens for a reason, how do you explain the Texas storm,
maybe a mile up in the air, flitting about, sending fat drops, well, just everywhere?
the weather, I label inclement. turn around, don’t drown.
that’s what I’m great at.
hit. pause. is that cancerous?
he would like to believe she isn’t a liar
and she’d like not to be.
objects to objects to the subject at hand.
have I got a hand for you. great job.
we all applaud. look. it’s not we don’t approve;
it’s not we don’t approve, son.
just don’t grow up to be like those blanks.
mark this. words are powerful. they were created
arbitrarily (I guess), but they’re still so powerful.
think. no one created a black hole, and look
how awesome they are. pure power,
if I fully understand what ‘to pull’ means.
some dusty springfield playing off a dusty
disc of vinyl; dusty in memphis. a classic.
you’ve got some rings on your ears.
move some hair away, you scoot in,
my hand moves through…
do you like the way they pick up
sound? I like the way yours taste,
when we’re embraced in each other’s
embrace, and my mouth is at your
neck and it goes up, at a lobe: metal,
skin, and your taste, your ear, just
slightly salty because, yes, didn’t you,
yes you biked here, dear?
Two young men
chat the domestic. They can’t
be older than me, by much.
Maybe they’re younger.
A dishwasher installed in a home
kitchen is the savior of one’s relationship. They both chuckle.
Gently talking shop (which is life, obviously) they seem so content.
One is doing yoga with his girlfriend, who is very serious; they talk
finances now, savings, insurance, rent — something I can’t make out.
I wish the world would swallow us all.
happy easter, honey.
I hope your sister doesn’t get abused
by her husband, your brother-in-law.
hopefully you find some eggs today with
candy, and I hope your new boyfriend
likes going down on you, and you figure
out how to cum. later, I hope that when you get
pregnant it’s because you wanted to,
and not that your husband just really needed
a boy, (“and anyway, he travels so much!”)
and I hope labor is easy and there are
no complications. I hope your kids are great
and I hope that I never meet them.
ugh, girl of some dreams
mirita. dressed up,
what a still night, what a weird still night
lightening right above you, that doesn’t happen
why can’t I see you more?
the storm was all around us, but there was not wind.
the trees did not move. the light up above moved
that was all.
I think a tornado is coming.
writing stuff on a post-it
waiting for the bathroom
a line of one:
you’re probably wondering
how I got here…
haha, that was a good joke
–hope I don’t piss my pants–
sometimes things go in reverse.
sometimes the end was the beginning.
this is one of those times.