Summer Cuts 2

Beautiful starlight,
summer's really going to hurt you
I knew it going in.
I knew it going in.

What stops,
honey bear?
What stops.

It has been funny,
the walking around.
The walking around the brown lot
where the house stood.

The kicking.
The kicking little bits of black and imagining
how they died.

Everyone takes credit.
Badges and ribbons and buttons.
Quiet like on the North Side.

I do not laugh so loud these days.
"If you could take over the world..."
I try not to think about it.

He's singing to me again.
I watch my hands again.
We are kissed and made up.
And out again.

Oil On Canvas 7 P.M.

41: still goes like gold leaf
along the sides.  Over stated.

36: is stator coil orange.
Brilliant in its copper cage and
wanting to be a little more
than it is
dotting wave tops and left over.

09: sings a little song by itself,
not quite white and not quite ocean gray.
Where thirty six has left off.

08: lady in arms, a violet I cannot identify with,
necessary as I whistle, brush in hand,
if I held hopes of making this photo coffee table sapphic.

95: loves the pale and while at it
loves the white and the darkness it would otherwise
leave out of play.

83: cannot be where other numbers better serve,
but what is a hard Almond
where there is Beechwood and Sea Glass Ale?

44: ties it all together and is
fench. Fench, fench, fench.


78: does not know and once you are okay with that
the lines make more sense.

02: still has some figuring out, but if you can make
the time to be on the bridge at sunset and committing memory
when the clouds are flirting with other
time zones you can wish
there was something between two and one,
decimal and simple, and fitting.

Summer Cuts

Somewhere there's a klaxon.
There's a thing going off
with all of its heart
for you and your travesty,
shuffling along one foot stepped.

Somewhere there's some medium
looking up from his glass ball
foretelling the downfall of some sky
giant, tumbling through the clouds
like a tree through lesser trees.

Somewhere someone is raising an eyebrow,
and flinching a little bit
where their mustache meets their lip,
and it is making no sense to them,
but you are
dying
and if I could keep
the blood out of your mouth

I would write you a song at the same time.
It will be snowing soon.  Wait for me.
It will be snowing soon.  I will meet you there.


Somewhere there's a klaxon.
There's a thing going off
with all of its heart
for you and your travesty,
shuffling along and step logiced.
Your are not loved, but wait a little while,
would you?  I thought we were
on the same page and besides
everyone is a little crashed these days.

Slotty

"It's all predetermined
in the grand scheme,
you know?"

I don't, but I do
know that I am badass at slot cars
if you happen to have a track.

I've been thinking
the teddy bear
I grew up with,
head falling off,
should go to my
adopted mother.

The only one who can fix it.

I want my bear back.

I want my nights back.

I want my sleep back.

I want and I do not know
who to ask?

When Was the Last Time We Skipped, Broke

Trying to account for last times
we danced.  The times when
it all went slip, shod in only
the things we could bring on our backs.

I think I liked you more when you were poor
and you had more to say and less to offer
the casual.  Remember when brushing shoulders
with them was an ordeal
we could talk about
all day?  Neither do I.  I do remember,
lying across your stomach,
hands pointed toward the wall,
asking you what it could possibly be about
on that grand scheme

and you breathed out, long.  Like a daddy.  And I
touched my forehead to see if I was still bleeding and you
said "yeah", hearing my sign language and I
said "yeah", hearing my voice inside
your well.

When was the last time?  I cannot remember.
Who does?