me again
nothing clicked til i was nearly thirty
at least i felt that way now
i had jowls he barely noticed
taking photos of me in harsh light
pastel flowers at the end of summer
we hang out over a blue picket fence
i feel belated, orange and needy
rain starts to fall. i’m manic in what i share
i’m getting there when i get there
like how VB is ‘back’
every single summer
I hope I can hold the boomf and slay
it’s like how they say it in pop songs
shalalalala—
and tho we couldn’t learn from the past
or plan for the future
we got dolled up as if all the world
was a special place (it was)
it was a dream with a babay
a fully dreamed-up baby
shalalalala
my headache in tampa bay
it was more decorous to watch in silence
not sullen, but not brave either
all the pink smoke……cheap sweet smell
i should have studied medicine…
do something for your insides today
don’t be ashamed
the hate i ate had a nice day
i can see outside my window there are lights on
like a tomazs salamun poem, squares
drifting thru a square portion of the city
yellow squares and a lyrical mattress where i now sleep
it seems everything comes in the post these days
yet the post is so fucked up?
me and eileen myles both wrote books about this
i wrote eileen a letter but they didn’t write back
this is part of the problem…. oh well
if you wanted to read up on the fate of the
global postal service, you should seek out my
chapbook Dear Eileen, but if you’re pressed for time
i’ll tell you here— it’s not looking good! still i saw
a mailman out my window, beautiful cold blue day
chamomile blue, i felt calm and new
she pushed her cart like a horizon
seven days of theorising in heaven
I move pedantically
with a sort of glow that’s really bullying
I pay two dollars for bubble yum
to make my fiancé smile
the only thing we love about crapitalism
the fine gilt edges, not quite fully bored
terribke sonnet
are you branwell?
put your love heart sunnies
back on and think about puppies
americans make it real or
hotelier’d i sung a chandelier
are you kidding, we love you
they look bogus which is challenging
sometimes like now the soup is on
make a deal with—
indian takeout again? for heavens
sake the days are getting colder
clouds beakerish, melamine
on-the-fence is all mine
yes. let’s call it wine time
being janky as an adult
he’s like a piece of paper
and the ones in this one are misshapen
and your utterly weird dream to live in london———
alan i am the sheriff
alan ruck in aldi in a bright pink dress
you meet him and the eight or so kulkins
naturally gentle, naturally kooky
the normal human amount of use on their faces
look at these comedians
the quebecois tough mudder
to melbourne, to melt in the mouth
the daisies we squatted on
to do our business
the paychecks we wandered in on
restless, to pick on the big guy
tap him on his shoulder and tell him
we would take over the world soon
wanting to remain orange juice
chartreuse juice when you put it like that
i was nnicely visible like i wanted to
sit on the floor like a murmur
enjoying her readin the brothers karamazov
taking off my hoodie and sweeping the
floor with the line break the others over
-pronounced much to too few of our chagrins
a sentence is not a sentence it’s a slice of cake
the cormorant
he’s obsessed with outside
thinks outside is some cure. James,
we’re not waterbirds
he boats in these days
from his new place up the coast
that he bought during covid
and the breeze that never chokes him
barge music
seagulls live on my head
they order shakes at seven
white headed seagulls
bigger than i’m used to
they call this a pilgrimage
