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.

you know that
baby swallows make silver ripples
in wild rivers to court reeds?

I am still waiting for the lion

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.

Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth,
cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.

and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud

It recommended
soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent
to parent might calm and soothe the kid.

You said it was okay to blame
what goes wrong on the planet

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

Part of being a good sad person
is always painting the shadows
in the right direction and knowing
what sorrow to art with.

You let the yellow glow
from eye sockets. The building up the street
is burning faster and faster.

He has stories that I am not in
anymore. It’s healed this way.

we drove on through
the blue seal of morning as the turbines
turned and winked out their hearts

I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary
until I smell like the bones
until I am its echo…

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.