feel good song of the summer

all that’s left in my fruit box,
reds, orange, purple from watermelon
radish, roasted carrots, grapes, cherry
tomatoes &

the brown bottom of the box.

tissue paper
paper airplane
flown straight
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
bloodless fact.


my brain feels broken.
I find myself moved to tears too
often today,
& others. most days.


too many things were coming to me;
I had to put down the poetry
& write some.


over ten dead skunks on the side of the road
and an opossum, bleeding out in the middle
of a neighborhood street. this seems an inordinate

amount of animal death for a month and a half
worth of time. maybe I’m just becoming better
at spotting a wild carcass.

we had an opossum at the nature center; she was
a popular animal among Asian tourists I was told.
the one in the street was caught by my headlights

leaning on shaky, busted limbs. gore was pouring
out its broken mouth. I wanted to pull over and
kill it

to end the suffering. so it could not just play dead,
but stay
that way.

you know me. I couldn’t do anything but drive on.
and I wondered what would have happened had I hit
the creature with my car, swerved to knock it closer
towards the black. would that have been kindness?

I think the skunks are an omen, and the dying
marsupial is a bloody message trying to drive
home some point. I can’t speak nature to save my life.
I can glean as much meaning from a bird song as

a mustelid corpse. maybe I counted wrong. maybe
there were thirteen dead skunks.
that would have to mean something. but maybe
I’m just becoming better at spotting a wild carcass.

wait, what about the song?

I finally found your theme song,
you know, all about French exits

and men stumbling over you,
back into boys it seems.

and now I have got some stupid
hunger, or call it some craving

for the skin you had let me taste,
the neck, lips, your inner right

honestly it seems like a waste
fucking around that last night–

but still very tight and lucid,
me on a bed corner, raving

over what I want to do too.
nothing left to redeem

for affection. it’s been too long.
and you don’t speak “no.” you text it.