Apartment recommendations for a city I’ve never smelled
in my mailbox. Empty wine glasses and static electricity
the air, the dust, the heart, the tip, the flotilla----------------
mercy.
me.
mercenary. bible camp.
jacket, jacket, hobble; ****** keys.
You’re a smudge, you doornail, tack.
Tack-- tack, tack. Honey, a floating bungalow========)
Pull off the danger, rose, it’s a time for campaigning.
Awash in grassy knolls, you hidden scavenger.
Grassing, grassing with watering hide, you scrivener!

I’m going to die.
I’m going to wake up tomorrow.
I’m going to die, and I’m going to wake up tomorrow and I’m going to die.
Tomorrow I’m going to wake up and I’m going to die.
And when I wake up tomorrow, I’m going to die, but I’m going to wake up.
And when I wake up, I’m going to die.
Tomorrow I’m going to wake up, and die.
But I’m going to wake up to die tomorrow and tomorrow I’m going to die.
So, tomorrow, when I wake up, I will die.
But I’m going to die.
And I’m going to wake up tomorrow.

(While I was writing this I flushed a Black Widdow down the toilet)

Totalitarian menace
refined, tailored pants
bleed malignance and
fear.
What stalks the passage,
normally?
Tear off my clothes, with subordinate cruelty
and tortured fiefdom from the sun
invading damp alleyways
and musty cement corridors
abet you enthroned
on that sidewalk stump.
I curb,
the habit
blindly happenstances about
yore salty ruins
we yodel, indiscriminately.

Turns out,
I’m an idiot
who knows nothing and does no good.
I watch the moon go down
every couple months
to readjust my calendar
and pour my non-organic coffee from
glass pots made in emerging markets.
You may say we’re losing the world
or that the Earth should be preserved—
Fine.
I **** at the feet of your bourgeois children and their plastic, antibacterial lunchboxes.
For me there is no world to lose.

Go away
From yourself and you will find
Everything
And everyone will laugh
But you will know that you were
Wrong
And come back

I fell asleep in
The shower today, water
ran and ran and ran

A boy stooped in that lonely corner
saw in the vending-machine’s glass,
self-sufficient, weary eyes; less
reflective and gleaming than before.
--Do you remember the way to the car? Asks the mother--
the planes flew
and the trucks honked.
Each day, a variation of the past
when the boy stooped in that lonely corner
--and the man presses plastic numbers--
for what had come.