I’m running out of pages to keep myself calm
I’m running out of time
And I’ve only answered so many questions
I am no longer authorized to print
Handle-with-care packaging
And I am running out of blue crayons to color in the oceans
As fast as it takes to finish this Carpi Sun
I’m running out of words to make you forgive me
And running out of Uhms in between sentence
To buy some time—
Maybe, I’m losing my ability
of a first grader gazing among tall buildings

She would sprint to her house and tell her about the windy weather
And the two of them would bike to Lake Erie—
watching the trees undress themselves in the water
using their feet to flirt with the waves
they felt so restless in the process that they hijacked golf carts from the course nearby
and cruised around the neighborhoods
Millennium Falconing it through suburban Michigan,
spray painting quotes from Ginsberg, Milk and Lucas on the rich white walls
dubbing it “The Battle of Detroit ”—
and eventually they would afternoon on the asphalt, cul-de-sac, kissing.
Making the sky blush purple—

their mouths full of Jolly Ranchers,
and necks full of bug bites,
some from each other

Watching the childish sun being tucked into the night slowly,
While shining one last time through The Ruins of Detroit

I thought you bought me for a sandwich or something
I thought I was going to become butter toast to you—
Now you’re pouring paint into my ears while I sleep?
Stop,
the dreams are nice but I always wake up with a headache
And what are these you tuck inside my dough,
Indigo? Great—

You go to the coast and have the ocean tempt you with freedom
While painting me black from the inside out—
Good job, You’ve managed to convince everyone I’m a rock
I give up
Pour all the colors you can inside me, I suppose
Paint me scarlet red,
stick a few pieces of fresh green grass on top
And Start telling your friends I’m a tomato
Then feed me to seagulls when you’re done,
they’ll **** me out somewhere over Nantucket
And some tourist there with an obnoxiously large camera will shout out
Wow!, what a colorful lighthouse!

She was dancing absurdly on a bread-shaped roof top
She checked the direction of the wind with her dress
She took photographs with her thumb and index
You could find her planner on her palms:
Do laundry, Write Essay
She made February 31st a thing because
It was unfair for people to be forgotten
She would say her eyes were falafel brown
When everyone would describe them as muddy
She said once, the ability to see is the ability to catch the sun

There would be Garage rock playing in the back ground—
Yeah, that would be her theme song
And the smell of Brooklyn would follow her
That one time; or first time
When I walked along the Brooklyn Bridge Park
And there was fog; that time
She was standing underneath dim lights with a strange
San Francisco flavor
Tossing notes in to a notebook and tossing that into her music
And tossing that towards everyone else
On her back she had a tattoo: If lost, please return to;
Which I guess was her way of losing that smell;

He would run to his house, emergency or not
And they would go to Lake Erie to bathe in April,
They would watch the seasons go by in the water,
hijack golf carts from the course nearby
And cruise around the neighborhoods
Millennium falconing it through suburban
Michigan, dubbing it The Night We Took Down
The Empire
And eventually they would tucker out and
Afternoon on the asphalt, cul-de-sac, kissing
Waiting for the Detroit to catch up to the sun
They dreamed of places to go
And he would often say Where?
And his response would often be
Anywhere;

Will you stop pouring paint into my ears while I’m asleep
The dreams are nice but I have to address the pigeons
perched on the window in the morning
what are these you tuck inside ice cream sandwiches
They taste like Indio during spring
Let’s go to the coast and have the ocean temp us with freedom
Like it used to
Remind me of the clouds, untouchable to everyone except fireworks
And the children who light them, even if it’s only for a second
I suppose I can’t stop you from painting inside me
Just be careful of the water lilies you left
Pour all the colors inside me, I supposes
Feed me to seagulls, they’ll **** me out somewhere over Nantucket
And some tourist will say
*wow!, that lighthouse is so colorful