There was a pipe that ran along the roof of the shithouse
made of shined copper
and a pay phone encircled by sunflowers
and more often than not
it rang when I passed.
Sometimes, scribbling in my notebook:
She’s sitting over there
in reference to multiple Shes.
You can’t live your entire life in that light.
There was a man who didn’t have to call himself
the World’s Lousiest Lesbian
it was that obvious.
We talked about his poem
but it was so stimulating it instantly
scrubbed itself from memory.
It was more than a semblance.
It was better than all right.
He promised to teach me how to breathe.
I wrote She is sitting over there
and I’m not really sure what I meant.
Everyone kept saying we were on a mountain
though apart from being surrounded by mountains
apart from the fact
rain turned to snow
the same time every late afternoon
well, it didn’t really feel like a mountain.
I spazzed the Dream Songs!
There were multiple Shes
and they sat in multiple Over Theres.
Every time I called my wife she’d just
drifted into dream.
Sleeping pill kicking in
she’d describe how the numbers
appeared to be moving
and I’d listen to what she had to say.
The war was over because: no paper.
When I checked my email it was only to count all the people I could not write back.
Who kept turning wine to whiskey?
On Monday and Tuesday I love women.
On Wednesday and Thursday “When Whitman showed cock to Eakins…”.
By Friday the dead are only Kennedys.
The spanakopita was just sitting there.
All I had to do was put it in my mouth.