Gas Stations & Weirdos
matted with blood and fur.
The bus seats are lavish and primed
for your sweet flesh while jumpers
swoon over your eagle parts. Yes!
Think claw think gangrene
all misanthropic and molecular then
reach into the bed: red rim
around beet piss. From Brooklyn
a caller i.d. illuminates the welts
enough to spark principle
to sit and think or scoop chocolate
from a bin of thistles. I am moving
into the new cape with a tenderness
you know from way before you were born.
I was walking down Bergen Street
with a capsule comment: my lungs
want to breathe you in while my body
brays at the open sky in a calm
and reassuring way. An android full
of nut butters and quinine. Do you feel
calm and reassured? Is that my hand
you're holding? I want you to hold something
cool and silver and instructive.
Follow me home so I can call the police
and tell them you're finally here for me.