Yeah, so I missed a few days. We bought a house. People buy houses all the time, and it seems like it must be an easy process because people do it all the time, but it’s not easy. It wasn’t easy for us. Sometimes you have to write bad poetry to crank up the machinery. Thanks to my friends for um… “letting” me write poetry about them.
It’s the very
end of the world. We drive from
Briny Breezes, with its bird-named
streets, to Fort Zachary Taylor,
but we can’t rent
a 1966 Thunderbird, so I’m
and you’re on the beach alone.
It’s the end of the world; the
sky is complicitly cloudy. In my head
I rip you open, disembowel you,
hang your organs up as a bunting,
and crawl inside you.
Whatever’s left, I eat,
making a smooth hollow space
On the river, the old train depot
and Greyhound station
aren’t that old. The buildings are named
for the president of the Confederacy.
But I am with you in Oakland, nursing a tear.
I carry you for ten miles,
running. I am with you in Goleta,
following you around like
the pelican in the parking lot. I
am with you in Denver listening
to Beethoven; I am with you in
Fayetteville listening to Carter.
The time of the moon isn’t right
for escape, so we wait.