Saying Goodbye

On a Sunday night, on someone else's porch,

Danika gives you the kind of kiss that you float home on

that casts you as a protagonist in a John Hughes film

It doesn't matter that she's leaving tomorrow

or that you're only telling her now

about how long ago you wish you'd done this

What matters is how lost your fingers are

in the thick sea of blonde hair

crowning her head

Or how good it feels to have your warm face

cradled between her small, cool hands

your bottom lip held between her teeth

tiger balm on the towel
the howls from the bathroom hang
on the walls of the eight bedroom house
 sweat on the trampoline
a dozen Stewart's ice cream gallons
next to the roadkill venison in ziplock bags

yeah we're muddling our way through
feels a bit adventurous now maybe
later the trauma bonds loosen

for some of us
now mourning the lonely freedom of autonomy

half jealous 

half sorry for the other half

still wound up

Are you planning for this (Jan. 11)

 

“In the (near) future, every person will have a parallel digital identity.

Avatars, crypto wallets, digital goods will be the norm. Are you planning for this?”

 

                                                                        — Reese Witherspoon

                                                                            11 January, 2022

 

 

In the (near) future, every person

will wear socks on their head,

have breakfast at night

and stalk around in wheeled canoes.

 

The United States of America will

be known as “Fraggle Rock”.

Fridges full of wolf urine

will be the norm.

 

Are you planning for this?

 

In the (near) future, everyone will know

at least one poem by every teenager

working in a nearby bodega.

 

Lightbulbs will be made out of hair

Your walls will have spiders in them

and everyone will have a sex dream

about everyone else.

 

this will be normal.

Are you planning this?

 

In the (near future)

every bacterium will have a blog.

the trees will wear diapers.

Bird costumes will be required for international travel

Guitars will do whatever the fuck they want

 

is this normal are you planning this?

 

is this normal are you planning this are you

 

 

Blots

The sun came for my drawings

Not to shed light on them, as it were

But to erase them entirely

I had taped them to the walls by my desk

To create some sort of atmosphere

Of having created things in the past

Things whose company I might enjoy

As I try to coax something new

Or strange or profound

From my wandering mind

But the sun came for them

Wiped away the pen strokes

Returned the sheets of paper to white

Blanked them as canvasses

Basically asked me to try again 

Or give up or keep going.