I’m a coffee drinker & some things happened

 

You & I are strangers who drink coffee
in unlinked bookstores. It has happened
& I don’t want to believe it. The flowers
you grew under my bangs are now
emitting methane gas every time I brush
my hair. You know, it was only a week ago
when the 5 mile bridge fell & all the seagulls
lost their nests & all I could do was stretch
my eyelids down to the bottom of my toes
so the orphaned feathers could wipe their
beaks & maybe leave a forwarding address
to the place where all the shrubs grow that
smoke untied human hair as a fuck you
to the overpopulated flesh animals.

You & I are not the same sentence, not even
in wooden breath. When we were lost in the
back yard forest & the wind stapled my scarf
to your nipples, even then it was nothing more
than a hammered applause for the dying fist
puppet. I think I had a small part bury under
the bridge that fell, the one I told you about.
Was it my part or the freckle that I once sewed
to the silver thread hiding in your nostril? You
used to always smile so the thread could stick
to the front of your tooth, so it would have a
purpose & not unravel & float on the deep of
your tongue. I don’t remember. That’s for the best.
After all, I could never take the sobbing of the
ill fated thread, craving to bathe in iced lemonade.
It’s too stupid to think that such a thing would
be bearable. It’s not & the lemonade was just an
excuse for the sweat in your armpits, to cover the
erect nipples with a tiny sheath of a conjoined hair.

My Bookstore discount card gets me 10% off a cup of coffee
&
you & I are two people again.

 

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Skeleton in the animal

 

I am sitting here on my therapist’s couch when she tells me to spread my brain on all corners of her wall & give in to the cardboard softness of the crystal ball. This is another session of her trying to decipher the meaning of the yellow glitter that forms a halo like smell around my head. As my brain matter spews membranes & cells in every direction, I realize I am in a salt cave & the parking outside the therapist’s couch is a giant squid skeleton, trying to be remembered & forcing an effortless door so no prickly remains of skeletal bones cut at the rear of my feet. The thought brings at least 3 tears to my eyes, I never liked squids as they were always after my halo to mask the rotten smell of their breath. But things change, so does the ugliness of sea. You also changed when you forgot to water my halo & it started to die. It’s fine, I don’t need a halo now when I can suck on this bipolar rain salt & yellow glitter can be bought at any Walmart. You’re just a carrier for my worldly nausea & that is all I need you to be.

I don’t have a therapist with any reproductive organs & leather couches are never as loving as oversized animals.

Prescription: Ride a metallic horse across a well lit garden, till the glitter wears off. Only in case of emergency am I to cut open my belly button to fill in boxed doses of Prozac, layered with your snorted seed.

 

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