One
When I held you close
you were screaming “closer.”
The toast was burning, so
I let you go (a shove toward
the veranda’s finish).
Gloria yanked. Open. Wide. The Door.
You cried “let me see your hands.”
“They are so scalded and smeared—
how did this happen? And those nails!”
File!
Two
You see, I like my eggs over-easy.
A cup of soy sitting on the side, too,
for taste: mmm . . . yumm . . . errr . . .
Some day’s Gloria’s presence reeked.
Wrecked, I mean.
Under the setting sun—sounds.
The setting wild life
being back at our roots.
The theft of lawn ornaments,
mother proclaimed, beaming like peacock
or paprika or Cyclops just finished with the lambs,
is like forgetting to lift the seat.
Down, I said, Down into the depths
of your soul which we must obliterate anyway
because it’s only bathrooms.
And it’s only Red Sox programming
with you with you with you.
Three
Before we get started I think of Maine wild life:
flat bump flat-flat bump flat bump-bump
Four
Trees along the highway:
debts to pay, says the ranger.
We’ve all got debts.
I can’t stop getting drunk.
This highway’s got me mad.
This city is a corpse.
Wait a second, I roll:
Wait one god damned second!
All cities are corpses!
Don’t tell me about scapegoats!
Five
Ash coat on fallen cedars.
Don’t leave without buying me a drink.
I took out a bap-progue-ram,
told him to get his act together.
Somewhere else, preferably.
Bang went the drums, like
the color of a new outlet.
Six
(i)
You tasted good enough to lick.
We were walking back to the car
‘cause we both own only one.
The sky was a purple cat color.
I wore my pastel cap.
You had on the basketball wig.
At the corner an old woman
wanted to nibble a lobe.
(ii)
Her hands were like ice cream.
The noir world was melting.
We were walking to a protest.
The woman died suddenly.
TVs showed the Nicks scoring.
Gimme my margarita, she said.
First cash. Want tattoo.
Welts to be concerned about.
Seven
There is not enough ice on my salt wound.
I peek at your arm and think of Himalayan sunset:
in a past life maybe we were a bike courier.
There was an obsession for DIY lit and pizza slices.
There was a secret obsession for Thai pornography.
Building bombs inside LEGO bricks.
Fantasies about beating up other white folks.
You would think of me, your false future life,
and say: “we’ll never kill the cops, the cops, the cops."
But then you’d jump right into that pool.
Swim around a tad, a bit. Teach the butterfly.
He choked on his butterfinger while
performing the dead man’s float
remembering the credit card companies.
And so many dead languages, too. Yes,
he thought about those.
He passed on to me while keeping track of time.
It all took seconds, took in the seconds, I mean.
And dreaming of drowning one day
after dreaming of murdering black presidents:
thoughts going over and over and over and over—
The third time he attempted, he would kill himself.
That was decided, a sniper to the neck. But he did want:
adoptions, crew cuts, crew lead.
Big, big, biggest LCD with channels all over the place.
Blue jeans that fit. The perfect check cashing station.
So back to my arm. Transformation. Salt ice.
Brim locks; one time in my childhood I got dragged.
Outside there were moths in the dewy grass awaiting
the wind. I walked through to a tree
and set it on fire.
Today the gas would cost me $2.60.
Eight
Well, it’s that time of the year again.
An iron prod. Calcified tooth. Zero erections.
Traffic. Traffik. Phlasshhhh.
The purple nurple bum bus.
Day layers with curb pillows.
In hand. Heat Sink.
Putting gum in your hair.
Chewed gum. Heat sunk.
Sucked you up like a ceramic
bowl filled to brim with JELLO.
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