one late nite cafe, two polos, one digital exchange, two dollar pizza slices, one aryan deity scratching sharp notes in forest green ink, two white-washed pairs of jeans, one modest attendant, two bombastic mouths, one silver watch the size of a small, hungry field mouse, two hot coffees w/ milk and sugar, several “bros”, many “man”s, four wooden chairs, one bespectacled ivory-haired man, six hours ‘til sunrise, & hundreds of blue-faced customers. “it’s like hearing someone fart for days.” “i guess we’re all idiots.”
we come from groves that are tilled with waste we come to grow from spills that taste (like birth)
maybe he said something like 'when i get back this will all be…' but that’s just silly if only he knew that over medicated foliage his mechanical bird would arc into explosion careening into pathways and pointsmans leaving an unborn daughter to grow with wonder and want.
of course she always feared helicopters and no wonder we never watched movies about vietnam.
don’t collect facts or objects that remind you of horror you only wanted to feel like the time your father in a glass vial showed you the skeleton shaker of a rattler that he chopped the head off with a square shovel in some desert wasteland wondering if he too would never see his children.
souvenirs are bullshit and so is planning because mortars fall wherever they want to.
dear darling arch your feet so hard so strong to tip toe gracefully across the room please push those parking tickets aside and please don’t mind the dust piles and the leaking fault lines stop by the volume knob to adjust for the sun and open the window wide and then come back beside me tapping along to the melody, crackling and fried like summertime.
(भारत के सूर्य अपनी स्मृति को साफ धो कर सकते हैं?मुझे लौटा.)
alarm clocks hiss and hurl across the a.m. bending to break the slumbers of men with hands made of wallet leather from swinging luggage pendulums and guiding airplanes with glowing sabers.
they march in symphony the pistons of taught skin and sighing muscle, removing wheel blocks and giving the go-ahead for take off.
cab drivers, flight attendants, hospitality agents, rental car clerks, pilots, more cab drivers (rickshaw, too, on crimson dirt and tip toe).
i was wondering, over coffee and blinking lights, what it meant for men to scramble for you, like i did and do, in concert how even the men building the airplane somehow knew that one day these metal wings were for you, for your convenience, for your displacement, to air sail you from india and back to angel stadium adjacent, did you know how precious their hands and cheap wedding rings ached for travel, how they lied down to watch exits on a daily basis and how regret felt different in pressurized cabins? maybe you did, maybe you knew how hard we all worked for you.
brows perk and sweat in lobbies while your सफ़ेद legs shimmer sideways wishing us all a happy labor day.
we spilled wine and danced in shivering wheat fields grow uncautious my love grow unafraid my love grow restless and rest with me my love here drunk in the fields drunk on the stars our feet will turn calloused and black from the dusty pavement along the long predicate of road predicting our presence pinnacling into evening oblivion the tide is higher than raucous rampant unrevealing nakedness dumb music, singing into junkfires, and the unparalleled movement of raindrops faster than the parabolic curve of a cupping hand and everything contained therein. i mean what is the point of dishwashers and buddha statues and fake flowers and underwear and gas pumps and power lines toasters cars fences polite smiles ballpoint pens shards of glass glittering like the atom bomb on blue sunday morning from red skies draped in velvet the fire underground grows and threatens to lick at our open wounds but what is the point of it all if not the everlasting nonrefundable commodity that nobody trades on wall st. or even vine st. and i learned the truth clothed in rags and singing always hallelujah lamb of god the redeemer the murky christ river where our eyes were blinded by faith and i grew impatient and turned my soul to the northern sky the borealis the ancient fire in our expanding societyless soul gripping always to the answer: oh i find you in everything! oh i am in love with you! oh you exist only in the shiver of the high drone string on basses plucked over & over & over in shotgun joy oh i have seen you naked bathing by the river and stole your clothes and shouted HOSANNA running from the moon’s murderous mack knife.
where were you when i tore apart the street? where were you when i kissed him on the mouth and played in fantastic cannabis cacouphany catacombs in the sweating pulsing breasts of night? did you hear our rainslicked fever dreams, midfunctioning-nonbrain-beautiful bop tip drop drip heave of the evening shudder? i spit in your face and realize that the am of 3 am can mean one thing and one thing only-
the righteous brothers eat funnel cake in carlsbad.
He had made it through two decades and that didn’t seem like a lot he had cut open his face two times requiring stitches but you could barely notice and once he was hit by a car but he walks just fine now and once he was in a war but he feels just fine now though his frame aches from the stresses of modern alienation and the newspapers slap the concrete each morning reminding him that tomorrow will always come, no matter.
She was eighteen years old when they met and that was old for her and her white skin stretched and moaned with dents and rust and dust and on the inside every tear and rip told stories of other humans who had left their marks in leather without meaning to and without knowing that cigarette burns will last forever. She also bled oil on the driveway and lurched in second gear but her wheel in his hands felt like the perfect fit.
I drove her home with her cackling radio whispering at me and it all went out the window like everything else and I hungered for collision because time can do so much even when you’re in slow-motion driving twenty miles an hour letting the car crane its axle into an embankment not happy not sad just bruised by the air bag and no one notices you didn’t come home last night but the warm blood felt good on your nose and on her wheel as another unchained melody fell apart.