to the right
                                                                                                  to the left
                                               a cha-cha slide
take it back now
                                                                                                           y'all

    then,

          Watch us suffer      a                                                                                 slow death                                                                   in the freezer

                                       iced and tight like a frozen treat
                                                    
                                                                                         humming our still

bodies to the rhythm.

Sweet summer fade away
Forgive my large hands for
Holding onto everything
I was not supposed to
The fruit was just so sweet

Not too sweet, I hope
Would have left in that case
Who knows with me and
The heat, I’ll tear it all open
Until there’s nothing left.

Except small, empty rooms
With used command strips
Littered across open spaces,
Some of the paint ripped
To reveal even smaller rooms

Memories are underneath
Truths that feel like lies
We all feel it, unfortunately
Wanting to be forgotten
Until there's nothing left.

I find it puzzling the generation of sidewalks that pass on the way to the grocery store.
Times when my tongue clicked at the passing trees and hot air
made me scream.
Katie always did her best, but her best against the summer  
beast was no great feat.  

Feet, on one hand, were not something I could stand the feeling of, with all their nerves and endings.
On the other hand, feet are not hands, nor am I holding one in my hand,  
for that matter, nor was I in the Volkswagen when the trees were waving by. Excellent
times to think back to.

I made it to page 40 on one of my documents
One of few to get this far
Now I want to describe what it is like to drink
Or be drunk: yippy, conscious in a scary way
Poopy in guilt maybe for tomorrow
But I’m explaining it to someone who  
Doesn't know what drunk feels like
So they don’t need to worry about that.  
Anyway, page 40 of words, my words,  
Undiscovered, y'all should be so lucky,  
I swear I’m not cocky, just lonely in the pursuit
Of fun.

Write like a human and they'll understand
My heart is broken
Make it metaphorical, symbolistic, idealogical
Like a coocoo clock in the basement
Yes, good, not too basic, specific and imaginative
Underwear covering my face, my eyes where legs should be
No, you're off track, they don't understand
But it's the absurdity of it all
Yes but that's not poetry alone
Why can't it be, I want the words to be art
They are, even untethered