Lackluster serenade
Pick me up and lay me into your abundance

I wish I may, I wish I might
For the moon to collapse and the stars to collide
Your hair is soft and silky
Like fresh cut grass in the summer of '97

11pm, sing me to sleep with your soft, sweet melodies

I am caught between a rock and a hard place
Yet I wish to be caught between your lips
Oh my, your soft, sweet lips

Do not mind me, I must have slipped
Do not remind me, give me no tips
This is a struggle, I do not fit

I am wrong and you are right
I wish I may, I wish I might

Cherries and wine, you are mine
Intoxicate me, you are so fine

Destroy me with your every grasp, take every one of my last breaths

"I never mattered, we never mattered
It all ends in death"

Said the wolf to the lamb
*"We all are next"

The boulders are freckled along the bank,
sleeping on lime-skin grass, grey and tired.
Fading black canvas shoes
attach to smooth, firm sides,
climbing a planet not as hard as ours.

From the distance, a spinning speck is seen.
With binoculars cupped around each eye,
you can see her twirl in the old, pink thing;
in the mirrors of light, you can see her beauty,
even if she has been blind her entire life.

You can see her rest her shoulder on a boulder,
gasps trying to grasp galloping breath --
and in between each choke, you must wonder
if you co-exist in this world
or separately, infinitely.

When you are drunk on the altitude,
it's time to step down and walk to sea-level.
Scurrying down thrown-up mountainside,
you should try not to trip on nature
or your own nature.

Your crooked smile flows upward
and I can see it from the ground.
Haunting myself with
a film teacher's creature feature
in black and white,
an old orchestra for sound.

You said you'd get nervous
when on our clunky telephone;
saying that customer service
could hear the fibers
in your voice
rustle like tall, dry grass,
with a wind whispering through
confirming, with every breath,
that you feel alone.

We'd recite fifties sitcoms:
Honey, do you --
do you have the keys?
Well, gee whillikers,
I could use someone to
open me, close me, and
dispose of me, please.

I write this for no one,
which is the category you fall in.

Sincerely,
signed Issues,
P.S. The television
is in color,
and I don't miss you.

- There ain't hope in the U,
the S is for Show me your soul,
the A is for Always forget:
the United States of
Killing it, Killing it -