I walk around with no shirt and a loud
flower-print, 100 percent rayon blazer.
I eat honeydew melon from a cup
using a clear plastic fork.
I am royalty.
I know you’re not a waitress (I don’t think
but you can be my catastrophe.
whether by bight or sound
I’ll bet we crash the boat.
mealy apples, bitter coffee
make me want to shine.
I read about Leonard Cohen
in the New Yorker, new issue.
‘Riddle me this, riddle me with that
clip of bullets, baby. It won’t hurt half
as much as the sting of what I’ve gone through,’
crooned the poet.
it’s the best I got,
songs in stereo.
when the heart spills a little,
it’ll be like ‘there she go’