lift me up by my shingles.
a million plagues on all the houses of everyone
who refuses to leave a voicemail.
i have been as empty as the ink ribbons
which ought to have been used as wreaths.
apologies in advance for rolling over you
every few hours, it’s just this damn wine.
you see, i’m quicksilver, man
i’m a fatwa called on all the moths, we are
all supposed to be butterflies.
you could be the last lime popsicle.
its only January but I still need
a valentine &a couple more fifths of Karkov.
we could kill three birds with half a bottle
if you want to just stay in.
i’m normally not one for small sacrifices but exceptions
can be made if the prompting is right.
I am nothing but split lips.
bad vision and a worse influence.
the backyard knows what i’m talking about, the tigers
prowl around Manor Park just sniffing sanguine.
of all the attempts made has ever made had reconciliation
with the universe, you would think someone would
have found our frequencies by now.
stool pigeons of the galaxy are we, coming by
twos and threes. half-wired nukes in our socks.
i am detonation.
the last stripe on your sweatshirt, the one no one
really notices except the cool sides of seats.
the history of hip-hop is rooted and a little bent,
where did all the boomboxes go?
the fuckin’ corner is jumping off & you are an alleyway
no need to look for dark it has found what it needs to find.

its like the damn animals want to be run over what with
all the scurrying underneath & the chickenshit games,
so let the squirrels know i play for keeps.
it’s the wine talking.
the grape of time a little older now.
remember when the girls were taller than the boys?
now mostly just wanting us unto them.
peace be with the rivers inside.
someone burned a picture of someone else
and the cops called it arson.
how else can you except one to forget?
a certain requirement is called for charring of things
that ought to be ashed long ago.
everyone thinks that America is some sopping mess
but no one tried to find a dustpan.
we are all going to be cadaverous this is the biggest prize
like getting the pingpong ball in the fishbowl.
baise moi mor

you said you were a chimney & i am drying
out for the year to be firewood.
a pile of possibilities, the jerk in the meat
the kick in the shins, the whole jug of merlot.
enough to compensate for the lacking of me.
a couple million ghosts I must have had.
theres a bushel of something bursting from my coat pockets
& it must have been growing but thanks to my hands
its now just yours.
do you even really listen when i like this so listless?
what you are or what i wish i was, are you the white vapor
that comes with morning or what?
i’m only curious.
unsteady like a horse with half hooves, a little reliability
is all it takes to stilt me.
remember about the tigers in the park, you won’t
be sorry for looking twice past the first feet of thicket.
it just hurts so much to be one thing & know you are always another.
i could be the thickest finger plugging your dams you could
be an entire grove of butterflies & i’ll cut holes in all my nets.
there’s exhilaration to be found in the act of remaining
free, at last there is a chance to view the mountains.
from the mountain’s view, even.
my father taught me not to mix red and white wines
but with you being such chardonnay & i so pinot noir
to hell with the morning to come, already i am three
bottles deep.