Nicety
A
little butter-pad
of
moonlight greases
midnight’s faded
plate.
The
stores are closing. Rain is falling
through
the fingers of the wind
and
onto me. I’m wearing nothing
but
resentment’s pinkish rind
and
also clothes.
I
am unhappy and I like it
when
the days grow short—
I
like to be disgusted
by
the shape and texture
of
my life: the wet potato chips
of
weeks, and how they glob
until
they form adulthood’s
everlasting dampness.
Tomorrow,
I’ll wake up
My
dreams will fall behind
my
eyes, and I’ll forget them.
I’ll
say good morning to the light
bulb
burning lonely in my fridge
and
I will mean it. Though I hate
to live—and hate that I’m
a grape
in
whom a poem’s wine is hiding—
I
will try to eat the bread
of
owning nothing, knowing no one,
and
never saying what I mean.
The stars, tonight, look like big oysters.
The
eyes of the girl I love
are green.
Midpoint
Stars
imitate the clouds. Hymn-skinned,
night-gowned,
and untitled. They emerge
from
night’s uncommon sideburn
like
sound from out a mouth. I emerged
from
the head of my father like an excuse
to
buy a boat. Creation’s puzzling.
If
you build a house from borrowed teeth
they’ll
try to burn you. If you spawn a person
when
you shouldn’t have
they’ll
say you did the best you could.
I’m more
into endings. Like a man
who
eats the last page of his novels.
I
let my food grow crude with mildew
just
to know I have some hope.
Life tends to go like this:
What’s
here is just what’s left
to
be forgotten, a man is most improved
when
he’s decided not to talk.
I don’t know what to think of you. The night
removes
its brain, and I forgive it.
Rain’s
contact with the pavement
is
like a parent at the door.
833
City night is trim.
The
bus stop’s caster-light
Is
localized, and free of envy.
Sober
concrete,
White
as ibuprofen
Lays
its edges;
The
asphalt just below the curb
Has
an eight-ball’s dull reflection.
I will punch the next astronomer
Who attempts to sniff my cum.
