Fun Legs

Vaguely, like in somebody else’s dream,
one of those strange cell-phone settings ringing.
No it’s the doorbell. Forgot we had one.
I slip on my Hyatt Regency robe.

It’s almost happy

Have you ever wondered why that voice in your head telling you to try harder doesn’t sound like your voice?

She’s gone. Stop knocking.

What did I do today.

I walked through Costco
dissociated,
watching a woman who looked like me
push a cart
like this is the world.
Like this is what we’re

Fury Psalm 6:

Let there be a God, an earth, seasons weathered through a time
for this, for that, for breathing and for holding one’s breath.

Let there be seasons when the moon has nothing to be

Lie here with me, if only for a while.

then
the eagle is healed

She walks around like a colt in a kitchen I don’t know, bluish crescent bruise on her calf flashing every couple of turns at me.

I would take you as you are and were
over all this dead air.

Am I too old?              Nah,

I’ve yet to wear

my trousers rolled.

But      this morning

coffee in bed,              my wife 

and I scrolling — 

Hers:               prison

I left Texas to have him. Not for him, but for me: so that I would survive.

i wonder how hard it is for her to 

reconcile being a Christian and a witch

judge and judged. how easy 

cause that is all we knew 

we drank liquor, smoked crack, 
escorted prostitutes around in our car,

hoping for a bisquit, or a small dead bird,
a song sweetly sung; that no one ever heard.

And I wonder if we are always standing at the street corner eating each other’s hearts.

In essence, there’s only one advert that can placate the masses. It’s by the surfers, slicing through the whitecaps like rotten pomegranates. It’s a thirty second trance, with a Magritte bowler hat, floating over roadkill.

if i tally it
every time
my tongue finds cherry

do you still
pull your thumb down my lip
sweet surrender

in the other city
the social concepts that killed me here
stay peripheral 

I regret inventing t-shirt language model twink size

She lives in Brooklyn, so I go to Brooklyn.

When I got back to your room, my makeup gone, wet strands of hair sticking to my back,

cadillac blue and sprite can green

And as I darkened, I needed nothing.

it explodes painfully

It felt like belonging, like being needed.

The terrains alien, the people / Extra terrestrial / Make sense do not.

My wife and I run around the tables in our moisture-wicking workout clothes for the entire 177-minute runtime of the masterful, twenty-nine-track album.

writing like someone might care