fucking hipsters

It was a rough fall and an even harder
winter, but now spring is here. The mumble

manic emo rappers are still raining down from
the SoundCloud, and she’s one of them; green

long hair with with pink wisps strewn about:
lil lex, no caps, except her album is called A PRO.

_+_+_+_

Billy and lex got married in a chunk of trees,
and I only got an invite because back in

high school I made out with the bride behind some
bleachers at a football game. Who remembers who won?

You had a black Run-DMC shirt that was cut up and sleeveless
with a scarlet bra that didn’t have any wire; you had a flute

of something that bubbled, but I never saw any glassware around.
after the ceremony everyone partied in the greenbelt, and Sasha

stayed around not drinking, but picking up trash with a plastic bag.
We smoked a joint together and I asked her your name, “who, her?”

“yeah,”
“I dunno,” and then I helped her pick up trash for a bit as the light faded

behind the mixed native and invasive trees. She had yellow flats
with a blue flower print; I had black chucks, predictably, horribly–I wore slacks,
and my shirt had had a collar, but it would not stay tucked.

later, in firelight, lil lex threw off her wedding day tube top
and Billy laughed and poured Prosecco

all over himself. they kissed, and we all applauded and you were still
there, a wry and joyous look on your face, your bangs banging against

my blurred, drunk vision. There was a milky, full moon and a clear sky,
and it was a blessedly cool night. Billy started to howl, you yawped,

and song-of-myself I swear, that made me stumble. No, it wasn’t the booze
or drugs, it was that noise from your mouth. I heard your voice and fell.

the H.E.B.

that drunk man without a home is yelling
“happy new years” but it’s only the day
after christmas. for him, what’s the difference?
automatic doors open for me, the security officer
does not bat an eye.

later,
while placing produce on the conveyor
I got distracted and
some little inkling of a poem slipped out
my mind, off my earlobe, and smacked
the ground. it flipped like a fish, wriggled

for some other undeserving wretch to receive.

now here I am, fuming;
the cashier lady won’t make small talk,
because she’s too busy talking to the person
in front of me, and also working.
I have some strong feelings
on this coffee I’m about to buy.
bad shit in Burma all week, but this ground
bean bag contains cayenne and dark chocolate.
it is fair trade, organic, and allied with the rain
forest so don’t you dare say I’m not a hero.

the cashier still won’t talk to me, but I listen
to public radio, and we all know that the world
is awful. just, wow, look into her eyes. look into mine.
eventually we’ll start crying and I think that means we’re in love.

skulking around

contrary to koyczan’s theory,
people fall for each other at

vastly different speeds. you have
sudden crushes, minor collapses,
dead drops.

***

A skulk is a group of foxes.

***

through the door dungeon

a spider, a monkey, a holy spirit,
a man you once loved, and just
like,

a dungeon of doors.
metal, wood, metal
and wood; glass
even.

what a terrible adventure.

***

over & over again
is life
& off the swivel chair
into traffic & then back to the office
over & over again.

researching gold, the wiki
page is an information mine.

they say the element was
produced in a supernova:
nucleosynthesis. you know
those tiny dots in the sky?
the stars, silly. “don’t talk
about work

right now,” I’m not. but the stars.
that’s them colliding. dead stars.
ghost stars colliding.
& after,
the dust,
there’s gold in there.
“what?” she asked.

***

nothing leads to nothing

Waiting to get taken back to my home planet

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
already.

Happy Valentine’s Day Everything is Fleeting Hahahahaha

Sum it up: take every cliched song, movie,
show about friendship and love, then promptly
shatter. Sounds about right to me.

That’s how it went.
What I meant to you,
vice versa, where was the losing in that? And even in a loss
do you have to plead ignorance to my identity? It’s bad enough
my romantic parts get rejected, do you have to toss
away the friend card too? As in, us existing now
relates to a tiny slice of memory, only expanding in
on itself, like only a memory can. If so, sure, fine
that’s great, but you know what would be really great?
Hearing your voice
in that familiar, lite
lilt you get when
you’re happy to see
someone.

The Best

I saw you as Ophelia in Hamlet.
You were the best actor in the play.
When you laughed, I believed you were happy.
When you died, well, I guess I knew you were alive
still. Not to say you didn’t play a perfect corpse;
you were phenomenal. But the Laertes didn’t sell me,
and your Hamlet wasn’t nearly sulky enough.

Did you get me into ghost-girls, or was I always this spooky?
Anyway, Shakespeare puts me in a holy state. Like, I can relate
to it all, even a confused rich girl with her heart set on a prince.
I feel like an angel and a tart. When I watch you I want to wash, rinse,
restart.