What does that even mean? You cannot have your cake and have it eaten too. It takes two to tango, honey, and talk is cheap. So, I speak by the hour, and pass collection when the hook penetrates your soft, upper palate.
Subverting patience one expectation at a time. I like to weaponize existentialism - it’s my kink. I don’t even like the music, I just know you like me for listening. What a ball, a beautiful wedding. So pulls the oxen on cart. Pardon me a moment while I spiral out of control here.
I did nothing but watch helpless as the young of my generation, the gifted and beautiful, trapped themselves in the same dead ends we hated the old for wasting their lives on. I’m sorry.
From birth your time, they say, will come. Your family excited, the papers, you sign. Guns flare. The uncles, the grandads, the fathers - those left - they say, your time will come. You sign, they cheer, you fight, they boo. Your war will come.
It becomes a dream you share. The first to wake up leaves.
Shapes in raw granite, a person. An unaware, apathetic block- head staring blankly in the mirror, hammered and sanded. From top to toe, mouths run - collecting minerals - dribbling away. Forward springs life, etching down the drain. Rock chips stumble over each other. Dust finds home on rough edges - inevitably the floor, cracks in my dry, clay-soaked hands, and cloth folds wherever paint doesn’t already cling. The eyes: pained, long set. A muscular beauty, the rest, one casual greeting at a time. In and out of days, nights fitting somewhere between, apparently. I work.
Please, good hatred, I crave your amnesty’s desire. I live without rent due anytime this month - seek me. On occasion, the one she missed; less often each day. Who taught her those things, yes, you like. Much obliged. Her sculpture, an idle thing to revere - an idea molded to life scrape by harrowing scrape. Her best image, a stampede alight, oh alright. Cherish her, I could not. Keep her, you could not. Try.
Settling my hand on a bur oak’s bare chest. Flailing distantly for the giving reach and feeling encouragement from limestone crevices beneath - I leap. Hints of living where fish swarm in silver darts for lunch and never hunger. She holds enough. They have two children in thick, wool hats. A transparent bond below a howling dog’s wounded voice caroling softly across the bristling stones.
Sometimes, if only cherries had a kiss. Sprouting endearing pestilence. Most, yes - alright - all of the time, I’d rather have lemons’ early dew.
in the soft torrential curls that
pool at the base
in that fresh morning milk
comes the caustic awakening
sonrojo en su sonrisa
the same flavor as sunrise
I’d rather tener palos para construir una cabaña. I’d like you to scratch my chest, claw at the limbs, burn from the roots, and watch my fruit fall.
I am not the carbon copy, but rather the rough suffocating diamonds. In these dank caves, nothing comes through - signals upon waves upon kilojoules of pixels. Time to turn off the news.