Let’s smoke out your eye poke bundle carp dinner done swill.
I told the first man that there was a bored look on his face and he agreed and then raped me swell all across the shore.
I ate fortune cookies without breaking them open, hoping to internalize the good things therein.
He spent a cordial amount of time doing spat mats and saying that made him more lean, like low-fat beef, he doesn’t eat beef anyway.
Those taken to the city get taken out the back, by the dumpster, where the being taken out back means something more than it does in the country.
Calling her name, you wandered freely through the tots and timbers and terrible tremors you felt while you were walking on such broken grass.
You tell me that but you do not tell me the wherefore wherewithout where you purchased such a grasp of long lived triumph and fuck you?
I smell like a seeping something.
The cold bride who cut her brain in two now sits in another room torn between the bed and the other bed pushed beside it.
The syllables of romantic rivers no boat can manage without a shiver or two.
Cloistered and really equal.
He banged the door like he would if he thought it would ever open but he knows the address, knows who’s inside.
If mumbled griefs get the going gone, mumble on.
The cedar of gender is so tall, so deep, and falls when you say so.
What a surprise for you to come to my party (I knew you were here in spirit)!
Not knived his axen heart nor the ability to become blood left us with no other option but to sit on it and wait.
The casual phones speaking kisses into the ear, while you’re still awake to feel the air, while you’re still here, overcome.
What a delicately delicious silent accident.
You resin the falsity as if it were fitting for a trade union.
I didn’t sigh, you sighed.
Quick like jitters, my body hampers around the better parts of the room with a lock step jowl furthered by systems and maneuvers like humor and spite.
In it’s wink it wants beauty and gets lost, it’s lost sight of what it wants.
A man falls in love with the photo of a woman he sees in a museum but she’s dead and he’s screwed, but not in the way he wants.
It’s hard to let slip some.
Like a first fist thing, satisfying and tawdry, I hang the clothes out to dry, and they dance in the wind, outside my window.
We’re not negotiating shit, I’m telling you.
There are all kinds of experimental thens, so then why the sad face?
On the second Sunday in August I could have been wrong, but I doubt it.
Wished to antiques.
I’m referring to the monotonous scrim the drunk left his last wake on.
How simple it would be to lay here together, not talking, just laying.
Into dirt, fractions, let the toe-haired boy keep his nails bent and beginning to dig into the ground, he’s growing so tall now and could use the balance.
It was a hot day in summer.
Because of my body, it always means everything, and that means everything to me.
Order a habit at night, tickled to the tip of the next day, I terrymerry the totality of the day at a close.
Tell me how you gulped grief and spread it out in a belching fashion across this unswept floor, and where the settlement settles.
In this lived-in life, there’s nothing left to lose.
I time the things that make us freer, and they add up to little more than the running time of a 1990s romantic comedy.
This body belongs in the fountains.
We devote our hollow economy born of a waste land to the remaining possibilities, where anything is possible, and everything is attempted, just so, and I feckle the fleeting moments like a Rip Taylor punchline.
Out of belief, comes...?
She plays on tensions like wire across your throat.
He splays nude memory spread eagle like splices in a cable access program.
We live and die by our architecture, always somewhat fractured.
You crisscrossed the thread and call it a wig.
Because they don’t exist, you make them exist, in a mauve-toned customizable van kind of way.
This slight smudge doubles as rackets reigned by two by fours.
Hands torn, mid-holding.
And feeling sad about uncertain people, yet glad to have met them, hoping they’ll do their best to recover, recount, and reconcile the road’s end by the end of it all (Exit 442).
People emerged, like technique.
In this grey package, the suppleness of acute amusement.
I am not a girl, though I played one on TV.
Because of my body, a hard time, a kettle left to simmer, I’m a simpering fool most of the time, waiting to kettle-whistle my unnerving, it’s coming so quickly now.
An old woman paces.
An old man places his hand on her, and cries.
He transcribes the conversation after as follows: I have known about this for too much time to tell and I cannot tell you otherwise, you’ll be fine in bed, you’ll continue cracking jokes, the kind that you know will make me laugh, and how I will laugh, and you will laugh too, and we’ll laugh and I’ll tell you how much I love you and you’ll lay there, resting, and I’ll pet your resting head, and you’ll look at me like I was the one who did this to you, and I’ll remind you you’re wrong, and we’ll hold each other and you’ll shake and I’ll keep you in place, on the bed, and you’ll say thank you, you’re wonderful, and I’ll say no you’re wonderful and the world knows it so much it just wants you all to itself, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it, the world wanting you so much, so I’ll let you go to sleep and you’ll go and I’ll light the fire downstairs and you’ll be gone and the fire will burn so bright I’ll have to close the fireplace door, and it will keep me warm and wonderful and I’ll spend the night dreaming of the time we were out to dinner, and you said you had never tried mussels and I suggested now was as good a time as ever and you did and you loved them and said they’re were you favorite food in the world, and how sad you hadn’t tried them before, and then, hours later, I left you alone in the bathroom, vomiting up the rest of your meal, you were so dissatisfied with yourself and I didn’t want you to feel embarrassed, so I shut the door and winced at every hurl, knowing how hurt you felt that I made you eat mussels and how you loved them and how they hated you back.
