I’m Writing from the Other Side of the Universe to Ask You How the Weather Is

This is a soft rain, my father says, his forehead a creased encyclopedia page. It is mao mao yu in Chinese, syllables

Song for 2 Phones

     What is that?
The line outside
the Maria Bamford standup
we went to last year.
          Send it to me.
     What is that?
A sugar maple on the hill
shedding Gatorade

Traffic

It’s 60 degrees in January so the birds have decided to just stick it out because who can afford the time-share anyway and the flowers bloom completely off-key like the conductor is drunk

Dear Casey Kasem. The body chocolates

rims itself in melt. This does not matter. You have made voice the only magic. the only way to cast a spell. Maybe that’s why I’m bored with witches. with

Isolation Cento

eating the leftover snow
we speak a shadow-speech
from room to room closing lights
very-stars
rush with a crackling sound over
a lake
and there is so much here
to last us all

...I'm part of this thing where fish learned to walk...

"poem w/ dukes up" and "facefaceface"

"lucky" and "trophy"

...one with the exact yellow he loves...

become translucent as they die...

"Silverado Crush" and "This Is How You Throw a Party in Mykonos, Bitch"

"Smile!," "The Finest," and "The Young"

"The First Time I Called Myself His Girl" and "You Google Drive-Thru Margaritas"

"commandment" and "do i miss you? that's none of my business"

There was a time I had a flower in my mouth...

"Splendido Splendente" and "Salt and Pepper or Salt and Vinegar"

I've got the alien walk down...

You make me want to write bad poetry...

"Elon Musk Is Moving to Austin" and "Good Joy"

"sorry to ping / i just want to know who was too good for who..."

"High School Kids and Gonorrhea" and "Bearclaw Asshole"

"Get Low" and "Fire"

I would fit in perfectly in the belly of any claw machine swelling with plush toys. Imagine: me & the duck with the very pink cheeks & the pillow-shaped corgi that’s all heart— wouldn’t we

Anything I speak, I know to speak a second time: My brother 
is dying. My brother is dying. You are not my sister 

tearing through an Italian restaurant, blistering
with what I have given her

more intimate with the fit of a Gildan 
shirt versus this thing hovering some 
distance over my head always threatening 
grey blonde grey depending on mood
secrets held in pinprick dots