Baby, you are a class of gasoline I’ve never huffed! Playing Buck Hunter
shifting your hips and throwing up your left fist when you take down a big stag!
The Mrs. Packman game in the corner always seems single. But we don’t share
separate beds! Our clothes sprawl all over the room like a
murder scene! Weddings and whiskey and Whereforartthouromeos. The phone
sprays eighteenth notes all over the room.
This damn cursor is beating along with my heart!
God ties a knot in each person’s chest then throws them down to earth.
You tucked the flame into your cigarette and smiled. The slow shutter speed of
kissing for the first time. Now the spruce tree looks great for its job interview!
To watch the tabby cat on the table exist!
To watch a light snow dust the abandoned mall parking lot!
Love: it is a relief to meet you, Mr. Anodyne!
So, you’re depressed in a tight green sweater. What has changed your mood? You
give me a pouty look because your ice cream just sits in the bowl like a drugged dove. And rain, shit man, rain.
I make no mistakes: I hate the rain. Its staying awake until the
concussing is over, the way it elaborates, spells and spells and never makes a word. The way it collapses like a huge building over the town.
The tea kettle survives because it screams.
A thunderbird is a giant bird and a type of wine. A valise is a portable bag;
Valencia is a city in Spain. Oh, I don’t care, I don’t care Sal Silversmith, Rebecca Crimson Ashworth, Peter Q Underwriter: each one of these names I’ve enjoyed down to the end of the caramel universe.
When you sleep, I hold you tightly because I imagine that somewhere inside
you’re shaking like a glass of water on a train.
And when I touch your face lightly I feel like I’m burning you!
We have breakfast, a handful of black bread and two cups of coffee. The oven
dials read “off, off, off, off”. You said, “Phlegmatic” doesn’t sound calm. Calm down supernova inside a soda can!
Strong enough to fill a barroom brawler’s brain this happiness, enough to
extinguish the quotes from around the “stars. ” I believe that if
there is a heaven that it is a thin washing of light, like the type you stare at
on hotel ceilings when trying to get to sleep.
Beloved, it’s nearly midnight; Time to shuck the midnight! A cold front
moves in through the kitchen window over the clean dishes. Shadows of flowers on the walls, acacias I think!
And I lapse into a kind of thoughtlessness, like a Japanese etching of a single
rider in a copse of trees and above,
the sky is blowing away.
Fluke as the head of an arrow. Fluke as a parasite. Fluke as a stroke of luck.
And through the big blue window, birds form a brief comma in the wide-ruled
A pool with a few leaves blowing across it like Greek ships. Sentences, starling.
The brownouts when I look at a bowl of peaches. The bad idea glued on the tip of
Music on the roof like the rain were tiny bells.
Ah, a Tuesday night, and what is better than standing on a street corner with you
and a 1.3 BAC and looking up at the goddamn pothole starts. Darling, Everything else is blow, or below us.