He Calls Me Crying, It’s Like Seeing a Ghost but It’s Just Porn
So is every street we walk, just in case. I was one slow drag down a pavement as pocked as my face. Having abandoned prosthesis &. I couldn’t remember for the life of me what was missing. It seemed to be the trees, arcing toward us, thrashing our ears until they appeared adorned with rubies, pierced like infants. The air that hard. I thought it must be a dream but it’s not. It’s cum gurgling, ropelike from my mouth, bleaching the black suit I got on discount. The clumsy percentages attach themselves to the names we picked from hats & tried & tried to guess who we were supposed to be but we just ended up drunk. Everyone at the party was like, you idiots, they were your names.
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When I Was a Kid We Played This Game Called, You Be Gomorrah
an astral scrawl of the axe that forks my tongue &. I was only one of. Everyone knows, we were always on our way to this. Seatbelts firmly, the rain coming down in buckets. Buick red as your cheap dress, your curls graze my face. The green too green & the hills disappearing, rollin right off the sky. So much of being seen depends on never. Turn & look. No, you.
& I thought we were done begging.
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Even Now,
your life touches your death’s hair. Sits in her lap like a child neatly folded, a prayer neatly resigned. The walls move like hides of things we killed that refuse to stay dead. Open the doors on the storm. We are the butt of a joke of a culture—the exile that holds the whole in place. We apply what we know to each other, to faint outlines we make out of scant light, dampened at the screens. We can’t be bothered to keep it out anymore. What we tried for all those years, anyone’s guess.