I listened to a
dishwasher, passed out, too much liquor. I would love you, like a man
desperate, over silicone breasts. like homemade gumbo, or purchased apples, so
decent, pure, so dirty—like a filthy cat, with a clean fur line, so tender how
we fight.
I’m tired, so many
wounds, listening to Hamilton—stainless faith, stinky toes, filthy beliefs … I’m
trying, Lord, just remembered mother, wearing nylon socks—the rain in the grave,
the parade of the idiot, the loss of truer rage.
I was fiddling a
spatula, making pancakes, the house smelled of blueberries. most were sad,
pacing some area, the kids are too grown.
not big on losing,
it became a cycle, winning seemed he lost.
too much to look
at you. it feels disgusting. how in hell do we win?
I’m scratching
eczema, I’m wheezing, you still leave the house.
over sautéed
shrimp, red rice, and cauliflower—a notebook, a blue pen, and dice—I ate
wounds, so much repayment, a man can be a dog. I understand, but I ask, how two
wrongs make him guilty?
silent sounds,
dodgeball in a small room, the ceiling a resounding board. I exit headed to the
restroom, you follow talking loudly, much air choking up its ghosts.
we reconcile, to
cheat again, now the theologian is a hypocrite. some apologetic, not many
cater, nor care, the winds are blowing.
