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.

foggy mems

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.

ohp, uhp, oop… okay.

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 field’s overgrown nature.
it is real untamed.

a grasp on the pipe:
burned up brain pens bad poem,
he stumbles near the end.

How to break a block

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?