waiting for the final
misstep I stay inside
air conditioner ping
tink heavy dark air I
make spear points for some self
I wish I could discard
that sinking twist in the
gut deprive the fall of
all color but the game
gives up and talks about
dreams of cooking techniques
sneaks under floorboards after
brandy and cigars in
an old book and then
we may taste something new

Reading Tender Buttons always just about to make sense a half-learned a real language you can still laugh like kindergarten maybe or waking from a dream having to pee you guess what Susie Asado looked like from the tea maybe maybe maybe tea maybe not maybe it’s all too sexy a stupid man like me will never understand and I am as mutton I know she’s from a different book but so what if it rhymes like butter falling off bread to glow too glow wait where are you going are we going don’t tell me don’t tell anyone the secret keeps the bread fresh the glass hurt

dear friend, we’re it not for the tears held back—
but no, let me start again. After all, it is spring
and the half-clinging leather of newly uncovered

corpses satisfies the flies. But that’s not it either.
Somewhere around here there is a small book from
the past that I’ve carried for years and never read.