Sticky orange cheese dust gums my sweet mouth. Mmfph mmfph mmmpfh. We sip cold instant german coffee while i wake you up late. You are a lot more mature than most of the women i have been with, you know how to rein in those blistering sand storms that tomjoad us all to distraction. My rule marked by yellow lines with which to park and swallow looped sky. Your therapist looms across the fringes of my sleep. My world changes according to the state of my belly. I ash my cig on central ave trying to look badass between thick houses. Is waking up really so hard to do to you? As you pass beaming in your grams car. Dogs submit in their curiosity while cats attack it with abandon. Oh, but i havent heard my ringtone all day long! Almost all of the sidestreets are dead ends.

for Lindsay

• My machine a charbroil chamois swathed in thaws of wattage
• to smooth out the ceiling where she sleeps
• god’s eye is made of Popsicle sticks and is hella cool
• to lure sailors to rough deaths
• My machine a Chiba beaming a cartoon chambermaid
• You’d love to think beyond time for once
• get high
• make the bed
• make themselves a whorl repetition some sleep
• It has less to do with you than you think, thank god
• god’s eye is rolling fever rolling in infallible socket
• pick up a tin of flushed grip and moaning
• to smooth out the cells so the mind can relieve her of sleep
• I love to relive her over and beneath
• Eyes get solved by volunteering torn ducts
• She says, “Hello, mallard”
• In this way I am a little girl
• I am almost done with the other dates
• pastel easter eggs in unlikely paces
• My machine turning from screen’s sterility

She thinks I smoke too much asleep like a pile of marionette clouds with my spectacles smeared approaching noon apropos an equilibrium of shadows stand straight up dreaming I think I feel her hand on it

The cat Priddle capers over carpet and clatters to hardwood floor amusing himself upon a plastic bottle cap shooting breath in all directions from her tart smiling to scars from flying along the belladonna nights gurgle through the windows like striking oil or aorta

I think I feel her hand on it and a warm lube ping gong going radiant after midnight I think I feel myself sinking through her bed and I think I am a witch

It’s a polite town it’s very clean
I can walk past a graveyard to the food factory
and the trees may spin birds’ nest soup from the fastest hens

Natural gas is everywhere these days
On the bottom of my boots smeared on the floor

Watering her nipples with it

feel too that I could sit like a cat in your window
and wait all day for you to come home
–you said, don’t piss me off!

It’s not your average monochromatic love

watched Partch’s furious delusion
imbue the depth in gesture clusters

I’m thinking of talking like moving baby
like calcite threading slowly down your back
–you said, don’t touch me!

for Lindsay

You write directions to the food mart on my hand
The hand knows what it must do

over your chest white sentinels rust like spring buds
The death of the author so kindly disingenuous

at the fish fry I think of us hours before swimming each other
I think of tears blossoming from scolded lonely branches

until there’s a new lake on your grandmother’s lawn
I too am interested in conjuring the living rain

and am losing my fear of drowning
At the fish fry I get lost in the fruit I will feed you