Je Est Un Autre

All I notice and love are abstruse curtains of light across corners
Or my shoulder pushing against a blue door.

I don’t know why my brain burns, thinks of one thing
how my life has been arranged by both myself and

quick alien gentry that are the universe the sunlight hurts
so that only by keeping quiet can I maintain sufficient

Turgor pressure. Water a dying plant and see it whiff up:
like a character fever-fumbling for a line of coke or his zipper.

My maps more frequent. A slap on the wrist, the warning I
should speak more at my own party so my friend won’t be stranded

with friends he doesn’t know. It laked brutal
and quiet at the table laden with green and orange salads.

In my mind it was like or almost like diving into air
with questions, forced tap dancing, shucking and jiving about Neal’s

window job, throe of anecdote, bystanders agree girls on craigslist rule;
they screw you and leave; a field, pleasantly (silence)



O needless strings of

simile dangling from a hook
I’ll never latch. No, I don’t like trying to think what’s wrong with me:

Even golden calves know better than to talk out their
moos or what golden hope at the center of all went bad

and let conversation with even you, beautiful girl, lance such pins
into my heart. Well. I’ll wait here until a new thing comes;

trick of season, of love that regular leaves dry without. The shindig
of which I never speak. Oh fuck. Here come the k sounds, the long a’s.