Swollen Lymph Node / third foot
Swollen Lymph Node
Dash. Dash.
At least they’ll see the black.
Slender slumber. How do I invite you?
Pass through me. Contrast with me.
Offer me a response. A cat cemetery
drenched in tequila. A broken heart unwarranted
and lazy. Simplistic decay. Simplistic civilization.
Simplistic evidence of a complex future. You, my
target audience. A platform used for noise.
Participation— pause— pleasure.
In Wisconsin, this is foreign, a mind less narrow than once conceived. Backwards, a reflection of the now.
Voyeurizing the voyeurs.
A pulsating screen reminds me of the rules
unwritten.
Poetry is born of insecurity.
Impossible reconciliation. A rift I have traversed yet not escaped.
Funky reality painted problem.
Balloons gently carried away. Will they pop?
Will they return? Will they triumph despite their
helpless travels?
Will I?
Dash. Dash.
third foot
i hate being here because i
feel the emotion left behind
from years of feeling good
feelings.
take me to argentina
and feed me red shrimp that taste
like lobsters
taste.
experts do not exist
anywhere but we believe we are
everywhere, so
how much more do i need to know
before i can be there, with
you?
push cigarettes between
our lips like
mints.
pray to
grandpa’s god
that i do not have to miss
a warm winter
half and half and
ingrown hairs.
hurry, hurry, hurry
here. i have but half a
home.