burned the coffee thinking of words
to use when writing about you.
(what word rhymes with commission?)
I’m still kinda missing that one night
where we, where uh, well, we watched
that movie at the friend’s apartment who
had the dog that was scared of me (“she
just doesn’t like GUYS”). we posted
up in summer night seriousness and
even though we were stoned you would
flash some steel sober looks at me, and I
left awed, staggered: who’s this chick?
you know, the coffee dripped out okay,
but I still don’t know what details to
add and what to give an omission.
to write abstractly
it helps to be stoned; so much
so it feels a crutch.
hip haikus, stanza
formatted. notice: no caps!
it must be for real
this feeling of peace
when I stare through the window
at our wild yard.
no lawnmower knows
this fields overgrown nature.
it is real untamed.
a grasp on the pipe:
burned up brain pens bad poem,
he stumbles near the end.
Ugh. Tina Weymouth.
Obviously just the best.
Be still my dumb heart.
My brother brought me Bhiman on a December
evening through his phone. Some video with
only seven thousand views, but he was big by now.
Maybe I can be like him. His songs hit so hard
like a smooth rock against a car window. Maybe
I can namedrop more and place picture perfect
similes in and stop rhyming; I’ll use alliteration for
a punch up.
People are beautiful to us when everything seems
to come easy for them. Even the pain. We think,
“look how hard, and still they go on,” and we admire.
Okay, I should bean a poor person’s fender
with a bat, see how they suffer so they can be beautiful
to me. But real songwriters don’t have to hurt someone
to produce. I spin ‘Moving to Brussels’ again.
How does one get inspiration to shake loose?
all that’s left in my fruit box,
reds, orange, purple from watermelon
radish, roasted carrots, grapes, cherry
the brown bottom of the box.
into the butt.
what? this is poetry.
don’t roll your eyes at me.
I’m a god damn luminary.
the necropolis doesn’t have
nearly enough bones laying around.
take out your skinning knife, honey.
let’s see what we can do about this
my brain feels broken.
I find myself moved to tears too
& others. most days.
too many things were coming to me;
I had to put down the poetry
& write some.
some dusty springfield playing off a dusty
disc of vinyl; dusty in memphis. a classic.
you’ve got some rings on your ears.
move some hair away, you scoot in,
my hand moves through…
do you like the way they pick up
sound? I like the way yours taste,
when we’re embraced in each other’s
embrace, and my mouth is at your
neck and it goes up, at a lobe: metal,
skin, and your taste, your ear, just
slightly salty because, yes, didn’t you,
yes you biked here, dear?
Two young men
chat the domestic. They can’t
be older than me, by much.
Maybe they’re younger.
A dishwasher installed in a home
kitchen is the savior of one’s relationship. They both chuckle.
Gently talking shop (which is life, obviously) they seem so content.
One is doing yoga with his girlfriend, who is very serious; they talk
finances now, savings, insurance, rent — something I can’t make out.
I wish the world would swallow us all.