What more can I ask of than this:
a woman to kiss,
asleep with peeking eyes&lips cracked
open like a mail slot.
an apartment full of nonsexual adult toys, like
jaundiced copies of Epicurus, midi keyboards
in life the movie family&friends are music,
to the whole thing.
what are you meta for?
you will say something with that 9:5.
even if its nothing.
even if its been said before,
&isjust as sad &unresolved.
maybe I need more vacations.
more “biking island-to-island in a poncho” type-stuff,
like some reverse sailboat.
more filler material to hide away somewhere
for a rainy day,
like insulation in an attic you’re not allowed into,
b/c it will get cold, & you will get curious
like that cat, who died knowing, &probably cold
&,I’m not that cat, but it feels that
my 1:4 is corded in me like those
w/ ChickenFeet&GoJiBerries or whatever.
To-day I feel like a hideaway (like no.2):
surrounded by things
fixed in perfect stillness
hinged together in a snowglobe scene;
unseen. my television is a palm-sized
cerulean bottle, the one we’d stuff with
lavender, from Philly –
I’d like to pour myself into that bottle,
&throw that bottle into you
into the body of you, over&over
again&again on new currents, up streams,
until one day you find that bottle
and find the poem buried in that bottle,
written in my hedgehog way for you with love. only
there-is-no-poem. only the smell of lavender
left there to remind you of those truffles
&that boullibase, the “friendship” we continue
to benefit from, to-day. Ship us. Ship us.
Ship us, somewhere safe babe. the world is hungry
&it will eat.