Forget trash out on the bricks for now
My pharo caves
My skewed ol’ daddy
We bone–marrow or bow–legg–ed?
We all in one house
Overbooked to the fat sky
In this city turning in with us looks bad
& falls large
How like a plot of land is discovered
How for us no winter pangs to plug up the noise
About the black tax
& it’s year 4 billion— our kind of Florida chills, & chewing gum counts like
stolen property; you said I look better through the backdoors
Where the dogs passout
& it sounds like yesterday has lost you
In a little blotch of Africa
I'm no landowner in these skins
(Our coughing fits & the sound shade makes)
Dad’s hands our obvious bags
& solid. I’ve even read
they begin to touch
on account of being affected wind,
performing like parents do— being related,
Watch for the edge taking off; the day I left you to Iowa City.
& vents, too,
bend like this
Brooklyn’s off–beat as usual & us, in seconds,
escape vocab to a boiling pot.
I am told I’ll be next to marry. My man dancin with me
weird upstairs— we stream, & I like to be in motion.
Nude I can. Vegas sees us up close like hands,
like how they phase–out & can speak for us.
Who got the script ready? We are actors with no
mouths. people boulevards. A name stitched in glass.
So sobby we get— skinny/sunny/sulky with the drapes shanked. I wish
for your brother & that's all that's allowed. We don't eat much Tuesday,
leave the hotel branched out with our things on
pitched black, & my mood took to the bed & crumbled.
Brooklyn’s way out there with no sugar, sugar,
but so far off I'm swellin for some.
These days we slouch; we are
no–good between the “American springtimes”; now who’s flower–vacant,
Ashy Billionaire?— Speak up in your sleep,
Afro-Pubes. Maybe Turkey does get hotter than
our summer, nail–biting in silence, humping and plowing what I imagine snow to look like.
Here isn't California quite yet, Numbnuts—it’s violet.
It’s not quiet. You sit here to visit
with your fresh–child howling onto a phone screen:
there’s always a screen to cheers to.
We can name it a class–issue but
whoever seen you spend time like that?
Your mother looks like lavender
should be native here. Can you believe how cold
your wife’ll be? Makin’ out like a pretty White–Girl
who knows more about aviation
is still hot as shit & slaps. even the birds
too tired to break their necks,
even the mother fuckers on their bikes are older
at 6 a.m.
where your mouth fall
where can you visit from?
to me, we wear things
til they fall out,
til we create dirty melodies