Wearing A Dead Man’s Sunglasses To The Zoo
The Itching Is Chronic
Show Up Look Good
Locked & Loaded
Everybody Has A Skeleton
Making It Nice
Trust Me Trust Me Trust
Ain’t No Best In Show
Lampreys Of Sunlight
Let Us Get Our Gifting On
The Trick Bag
The Wish Book
What is the grass?
—WALT WHITMAN
Let’s go my little paradise,
My little heart attack—
The city is unwinding.
Roots are busting through
Concrete. Soon, it will no
Longer be the epoch of racing
In circles. There’ll be no more
Sleeping in the Xerox machine.
All those disposable hours
Where we sat around wondering
How many times you could
Tell someone that you loved
Them before they’d explode
Instead of leaning into
Their warmth & actually saying
It. Soon, no one will want unlimited
Texts because it will be known—
This here right now, this,
Exactly what you mean—
Is brought to you by
Every second that happens
Hereafter & how the sunrise
Holds your closed eyes.
Any time is the best time
For us to go. Please, hold my hand.
It is such a pleasure to be
Not dead & walking through
This place with you.
Rusty chains coiled in the cardboard box
I carry to the dumpster & all I am
Thinking is my face falling off & is yours
Under it & or is someone’s I don’t
Even know—further down, a stranger,
A dead man, a saint, or just a sprawl
Of gravel & then I’m thinking this other thing—
There’s a snake in this box, blacktailed
& then more: there’s a bottomless immensity
Beneath my feet & what a sacrifice
It is each day just to get by, this alchemy,
This fevered life: illness & love,
Lockjaw & slow-motion kidnappings—it is what
It always is—chronic dying, shivering with
Unbelievable joy & not knowing a damn thing
About anything as lightning
Jigsaws the horizon. At the garbage pile, I pause—
Take a deep breath & sit on the curb.
Like they’re being sucked into the sky,
The trees’ limbs lift. No cars on
The street—so quiet. So hushed I can
Hardly breathe. Thousands of lives
Are piled into all this dirt we walk
On & I’m waiting, saving it all for you.
I’m a big jellyfish,
All grown-assed—I can
Admit it now: I am
A gelatinous head
Inside of a head
That smells of spit-
Up diamonds that’s
Been jammed inside
Another head that,
Most certainly,
In oftentimes slats
Of moonlight, looks
As if a mustache
Has been Sharpied
Above its lip.
So what if the years
Haven’t taught me
How to hold
Another’s hand,
Tenderly, or drink
Orange smoothies
From
