Bermuda Triangle
you can never be too sweet.
foreskins line the apartment room
like Used Sunlights.
solid screams of soiled Day,
“this House is infected with Pig’s Blood!”
or maybe with her two year old son.
you have things you're told you’re needed to say
and ignore them.
you think about dicks covered in your shit
and sketch questions in the curious grime
and fermenting pineapple.
on granite counters and ammonia
you almost turned to chlorine air.
on granite counters and ammonia
you almost turned to chlorine air.
you harmonize the wind in your eye
to a meticulous anxiety. then call it:
reading. and you call people on the phone.
most are gone. leave voicemails descriptive.
the clouds, the grass, even the Strain.
and when night comes,
you carefully pry it open, through each
amnionic wave, then soothe it
into your river. question by question.
waiting the Vitriol who quiet the Everything.
a long and a careful.
you listen and pretend.
cursive fidgets along the Sidewalk
hills and hills of the people
we spoke down, or tunnel-licks.
and a so hideous. me, well, six drinks
short of an atmosphere, but still
the Grindr and the Dogbrights.
Beetlegeuse, you might say. a kind,
but delayed, afternoon; exhausting
blurs. so much “we almost” and we
a longness, but bit by bit
corroded into a bitter and useless verb.
then canary along a residue of faded moon,
a fit of yellow gauze. o birds, how they
a softing and a fool. o stars. o hourless days.
then I call your mom on the telephone.
gibbous fingernails fidget within my holes.
spay us some little chits, but I tell her
some golden minnows dreamt fine.
and she to me gives a TV jaguar,
intense though that may sound: it’s perfect.
so honored, I bow. I show you said bow.
later, through feathery hieroglyphs.
October Morning
we tilt hours into a vicegrip of chapter,
of things chained as centipede but immediate
as Red. I forget almost everything about us.
and watch the sun through their barking dogs.
there are things to say and books to explain
them. a belligerent canvas of Smeared Laugh
and Colorless Insomnia. sometimes I’ve copied
out dreams into insect-cold calligraphy, but
it fuzzes, like an erosion is so many bunches
of confused bees I find on the ground everywhere.
we’ve talked about collectives and apartments.
cabbage violets and bedbug lentils. then again,
how early is Still. like the month has given
up and let day extend its reach though several
Autumns. mimetic the eyes, or the shrill air
inside the eyes, to cars forever on the 101s.
and here a green Fade lingers, clouds all spinach,
of some paradox of energy. Hydrogen rippled out
of landfills, or out of mute piles of Instagram.
faces selfied bobbing amidst the dense breath.
I think about my nerves like hotels, slightly
pollinated by this and that Frenetic. to vision
a stillness across dunes. To strain us into focus.
to stay a little while, these feelings of love.
