County fair princess sash
A catapult w/ every
joint in proportion
to a body,
something landed in
my circle
—a figure
of whether I’m better
off without
you.
Bent
grass.
You
notice something.
“There’s no daffodils,” in that
patch. Why do
you want me just as
naked? “Suicide
watch,” doesn’t
make you that
special. Jo,
“how
will
he
do
it?” is still
draped across your breast.
Leave you sleeping in Las Vegas / the meadows
You’re loved by all, but still seedless.
You aren’t loved by all.
The sunrise from
far away makes the Man
-dalay Bay, Treasure I
-sland and Flaming
-o glow smooth, gold
indestructible. I’m sweating
into your mouth —just
say something surprising
& I’ll stop. I’m not
in the hotel w/ you.
Flowers wrapped around a port
-ico, out of
proportion in their
dewy moan
-ing. I’m picking
up a bracelet
off the street. My wrist
hurts.
Don’t follow
me. Jo, “how will he
do it?”
is still
draped across your breast.
I got dressed up for you
& spat
out the concept
that eating is always
death & equally
so for
all things
eaten. I’m re
-producing
my sky blue tulle
as a reflection
pool & drawing
a bikini because
I need this
body to jump
Between
these 2 blue
options. Scientists
often choose
to save only
creatures that
eat smaller
creatures. What
are you gonna
do to me? Jo,
“how will
he do it?” is still
draped across
your breast.
I’m wearing a bikini at the beach house bonfire
I tell this sudden memory
for the first time: young,
Mom told Dad to stop
dreaming of rockstar
fame & he tossed
out boxes boxes of Rock
n’ Roll records, crying.
Mo recounts a hard time meditating
on a sunny day.
Chelsi
& Ahmed discuss, decide between
sacrifice or triage.
But You stare out
until this beach
is invisible, invisibility
licking your half-open
eyes —vulgar & some-
how more obsessed
with light.
I wanna ask: “Will we feel stoned?”
when these 2 sky blue
sea blue options
kill us for fun?
“I think it’s possible”
is a heartache that
someone says & that
is the center
of fun. Is
this fun?
Jo, “how will
he do it?”
is still
draped
across
your
breast.
Electric lamp above a museum painting
Your old friend men
-tioned suicide & said “you
won’t feel anything.”
Riskless wires, Sol
-utions. Both
of which know
gutter-waste also
grew from nothing.
Prelude suicide notes
say meet you at the donut
shop, the car wash.
I’m meditating into the sin
-ews of your fingertips,
I see your see
-dy motel
bed. I have a big
bad heartache. I touched
like any other tourist
mining obsessions
from Rothko color fields.
Jo, “how will he
do it?”
is still draped across
your
breast.