55.
Totally shilled out for the electric
slide. Ultraviolet in my utile hatred.
Along the garden, the grapes cool
their obsidian bells. All empirical evidence
edifies our call to instantaneous insurrection.
Pigs are beautiful until they’re people.
56.
Child actors: Where are they now?
And why aren’t they dead? Natural
disasters roll out confirmation of what
you already suspect: that you’re a
loser, your father was a loser,
and your father’s father was Reagan.
57.
Please shut the fuck up, angel.
No one asked for the etymology.
Necromancy should be evil. Pretty please
put the intelligentsia on manure duty.
Factoids spike my cortisol. Kids’ table
politics only from here on out.
58.
One eye trained on the exit,
a circle describes the corpse flower,
a mariner intones one grimy dirge.
I’m not totally opposed to commerce,
but every time you don’t buy
something is a portal to infinity.
59.
Backgammon or Seedbed? Your oyster now,
babe. The witness played a Sapphic
harp. My fontanelle never fully healed––
hence, my pockets full of bergamot.
Who brews the coffee on this
bird? Whose choler did I drink?
60.
I bathe my shells in information,
strung pearls of the Balkan mentality
ripping stitches in my sore throat.
The Branch Davidians deserved to live,
curling ammunitions on the short breath.
The scabbard seals itself for thee.
61.
The proof is in the porcine.
They called him many names: Zeus,
Sweet Marie, Mr. Ed. A tarantula
weaving its silken commissary. We abrogate
our marriage in time for Fleet
Week. Morning light shutters the Danceteria.
62.
While a prehistoric lake reemerges, my
best friend plays with my hair.
I didn’t understand love was real,
that kind people write evil poems.
I offered my captor a half-drunk
Gatorade in a nearly Buddhist gesture.
63.
What makes something do something? Vedic
refusal of earthly excess. Sufferings per
capita. My coquettish little hat blows
away in the monsoon. Rebuild Atlantis
out of bitcoin or slash every
officer’s tires. The blues are over.
64.
Celtics take game fourteen. Beautiful
night for a kiss in lower
Cleveland. Grey snow. Boston fuck-ups. Landmines.
Dirt cup, hold the gummy worm.
Limp kimpira salad. Be be aggressive.
But that’s just my experience.
65.
The hilt of my love falls
daggerfully for the final time. Swans
on ice slip out of syntax.
My webbing grows rougher with every
wake. Behold the neck where my
head once ruled––my leopard’s whim.
66.
Got too drunk at the funeral.
Got Mylar in the balsa wood.
Got muted by the Lydian tyrant
Croesus. His apology was both tedious
and humbling, and in the end
I understood. The most abstract wins.