You’ve spent a lifetime training for this.
I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…
this is what I want you to to see: leaves falling because it is too late for them not to
Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.
It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows? Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.
The storm passes without snow. The car waits loyally in the back lot.
I have observed, the theorist I am
Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night; should have boiled old coffee before noon.
I am still waiting for the lion
I buy too much, for someone of my stature. could pawn a skinny metaphor to purchase a plump skin. its reputed in our lineage— to daydream a life that shreds our pockets.
my friends’ fathers are dropping I mean dying like flies
and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud
I slumped in front of a massive desk, a passive patient corroded with failure and dread.
I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary until I smell like the bones until I am its echo…
I imagine that undressing a color, though, would be so much like peeling a memory away from the grey and the white matter of your brain.
I would always rather be happy than dignified. Rather held than held in awe.
the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.
my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight, and there are already way too many fragments in this house
you quit wearing pants loaf around your yard in hole-nipped panties
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then. Bring the dancer back to the stalks.