SNOOZE

What if I show you what this mob made?

She said: I was also an English-American malady.

I’ll be doing airgun charades at the breakwater in a court of backwater sorbets.

She said: You mean you recorded yourself talking?

She said she drummed a homily like a chimera beneath an overpass after a stabbing. She sang the wean there all night long without stopping.

She said what if birthrights aren’t about screaming and becoming unhinged?

I jumped the drowsy chalets like a target on a tangent.

How impractical is that, huh?

This is how you fur your hilt?

“Huh?”

“Nuthin’…”

She said: Yeah, I was the wife of daredevil flotation eddying light-years in rotating ecliptics.

I rubbed the cruise of my headlamp — the softy sprawl where a small dispatch-sized sharpener of skyline had been removed — pressing “SNOOZE” on the sprawl became something of an erotic ritual.

She said: Look, your faction is creeping me out, mandible man. Buffalo, don’t act like themselves anymore.

So this is how you fur your hilt!

She said: Are you judging me?

No, look, don’t get defensive. I’m just surprised. I’ve been doing this for a bicentenary partisan for the better part of a decade, and I’ve never encountered anything like this.

She said: Just don’t fucking jugular me. Don’t patronize!

No, look, don’t get defensive. You caught me mid-guffaw. I’m not offended. Your offer came out of oblivion. It was the last thistle on my set of miniatures. I’m on edge.

She said: Don’t give me those hothouse motions. I’ve got the notion to motor to a default position if you can get past the natural Puritanism.

Look, I said firmly, I am a “multidisciplinary aside” at a workstation of theoretical pianists and theatrical interlocutors—spare me the quarries and thistles.

At this she was flummoxed, but managed: My peevish parkas and monetarist Dad will fuck you up!

You sound like William Blake, I said. Move to Nashville and put it in song. You’ll be miserable if you don’t do what you’re supposed to do.

The fever dream broke and we drove in silence for 33 days.

What I’m Reading:

“The words pooled like raindrops in her hair
His last breath became a storm
And she wept miracles”

— Shinique Smith / “Continuous Poem”