I write my poetry
the right side to the left &
Sometimes I stumble from the calculator,
Sitting above a movie stub, asking you
What's going on with you.
I cradle my head & a beam of light emits
my skull & portrays an image
Of a shitty aluminum trailer in Southampton, &
I am trash there. Radio bust out rainbows,
Suddenly one of the guests cries out.
She bites her nails.
The blonde girl giggles
& looks out towards the sister dancers.
She is titanic black-eyed silverdoll.
She always gets bit by mosquitoes,
While he always gets bronchitis in the winter.
She told him no about the prom; it was a shame.
Then the war came on and we had to say something.
But we were infantile and moronic about it.
Someone put soundtrack girl on the stereo.
There we are- now the abstractions can start.
The air will become hazier in definition.
He will grow a pretentious stash.
She will get her best friend out of the bedroom.
Then the war will come on and we will have to say something.
I'll say, send the orderlies. They'll steal the pastries.
She will eventually grow seven heads and not wear a bra anymore.
It was the anthropomorphic Snapple commercials that did it.
He will be the one with the new relationship.
We were cool for a while.
Chip on my shoulder.
There were other poems before this one,
Dry-handed poems written in cars,
With games playing on the radio
That were like sponges.
Blue detergent frogs.
Someone turned the burner off.
I relaxed on the boat, you know.
I'm still blaming myself.
Tranquility like the tarantula
When I was still smoking resin
In the bathroom