I don’t sleep anymore.
And when I’m on the train
I look up the tall woman’s
skirt and find an outlet
I don’t have the correct
connection to plug into.
Man stares at something
long enough to kill it;
he hunts for things not his
own, and, underserving,
greedy for their teeth—
their particular song, a luster—
spoils just about everything
along his way. And the car
goes dark, jingles a little bit
before it goes silent, before
the recorded announcer
announces to be careful,
that it might begin to rain.
Girl #275
I will run my car
For eleven years straight
Into a concrete abutment
To keep you inside me
For another minute I will
I will do anything
You ask me so please
Ask me what colors make up
My love ask me
Which is my favorite flavor
Of whip my obsession
Is ketchup please
Not you you are different
when you call me
Baby I melt into a paste
That you can spread
I am somebody not only
Some body but the one
You swallowed skinned
Strawberry the one
Who held your fist
And cracked your knuckles
While I kissed you
I did I kissed
You your shoulder
With its wealth of muscle
And salt I replay it
Now I replay it to
Your song replay
Repose our mouths
Our bodies coming
Together bones flesh
Secrets creaking in song
Inmate #386426
When they first brought you to jail,
you were bound to the black chair on wheels
with its sheen straps—the squeak it makes
while it glides across the bleached linoleum
at intake.
When they tied the mask clasps
around your neck, they bore witness
to your chalky breath—the knot wound
tightly across your pulse.
But in your torn Nirvana
T-shirt, and beekeeper eyes, you shrugged
and allowed them each their job.
