there’s a dead bird dead
on crystals with thorns
like piss
i’m going to cvs for
heavy public toilets

sad debris is my vampire
under day sun
let’s use the puppy dog
filter as i perform breathing
faces through bird beaks

i say we need fat cheeseburgers
you ignore my fat nails
i apologize and settle for dead
mouths i’m growing pains with you

i’m eating dead seaweed and
will save humanity

let me spit hair and thread
fake sperm in balloons
blow now

dead birds dying is a first
world hypocrisy i have
to pee in cvs

i know my rights as dead
cheeseburger my
fingers are wet.

—-

i. Scene or Posture

we are the bitches of Avenue X
most of us are dead anyways or drove home
there were Reward Miles involved
butted lines at concert, that kind of thing
weavers of failed delivery sexts, fishers of drive
c’mere and founder on the shoals kind of thing
a suspenseful clutch of talent, who knew?
mature would be ignore it
go home at noon like 4:50
sleep it off at the altar of the not totally unfortunate looking
any wad that gums it up
it’s yours for blowing, like
have you ever been punk?
it goes like this:

ii. Competitive Fictions

The closer they glom the more they
know about derailleurs and shit
you’d like to tuck them in
at home, plant &
add water till they grow willowy
mean & well-behaved, each
bowing to a blaze of mirrors like the Eve of an Eve

who can’t get hard or down, whose eyes
won’t bug. Was it grace waiting all night at a keyboard
for an unmentionable chord, was it kinder to be 40?
From her perch reciting: Homer calls it
atrugetoio the sea, unyielding
a barren downy bed, a nymph’s mucosal hug
Oh, baby girl. Your princess, etc. Find another row to hoe another.

iii. les neiges de J/O, New Jersey

Wake up in the 90’s like you crashed
the walking tour of the decade’s tallest
girlfriends and their driveways
& broke up the band
the names are still kinda special
they’re all burnout
vegetarians or you get the idea
bam!
they’re hot and you’re naked
Everyone looks good here
you could be a +1

My boy wears grease that
smells like cinnamon in his hair.
It lingers on the pillows
and I don’t want to forget that.

There aren’t any squash in the garden but
the blooms sure look pretty
like springtime tender
even in the eleventh month.

When there is rose
lemonade at the market
and when there are curbsides
bathed in sunlight,
maybe.