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.

paper
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.

roadkill

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
thigh.

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

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.