Eight hours between two beds
& this is where it falls apart.
I’ve never felt more rested though.
Not everyone has a light behind
them. Not everyone is lovely. There
are shambles and people who live in
them & become shambles
themselves. These are the destitute
in spirit, the lost from love & drive.
They exist, in the countless, by the scores.
A suburb is a collection of shambles.
The projects are neglected monuments
for those keeping track. Don’t ask what
for, I did not build them.
“…heading out to the property” oh! the property.
Who’s properly partying with you on your goddamn property?
Wife, kids, a nice dog. Keep up
the path and in less than a decade you too can fuck
a young, buoyant intern on “the property.”
I feel like I’m the only one on this world who thinks it’s macabre
to get married on a plantation. “People do it all the time.”
What? Would you get married on a murder site? In a gas chamber?
What if outside it were pretty? Would you get married where
people were raped? What if it happened 200 years ago?
What if the ghosts were quiet? I guess ghosts are quiet here.
I want to get married in a graveyard full of confederate corpses,
& we can dance on their graves to ‘The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,’
& then we can try to conceive something in a copse of thin trees
near a headstone,
& I’ll ask you if you know about the Allen curve, & you’ll just grin,
& you’ll pull back on your wedding skirt & adjust it,
& the spacecraft will appear in a moonless, starless sky and beam us up