It was revolution by music. The world would never be the same.
I don’t smoke, I called out, but no one heard me, and I sounded uncertain.
seeds
when nothing smells like you
i let dawn-colored fruit rot in the blue bowl
spray perfume... more
I just remember the room dense with familiar sound, the melancholy howl of the perfectly in-tune saxophones, the electric brilliance of trumpets, a drummer with eight arms; my mother looking over at me, expectantly, as if to say, “This is what you wanted, right? This is making you happy?”
What will be will be. She was a good swimmer, and at least he was getting some exercise.
Manic yet aware, a foot-stomping Nashville show, a sight to behold. They hit the road. They barely made it. They broke up. Such is life.
Larger currency-pills plink in an “I Hate Mondays” coffee cup. No one knows who that cup belongs to.
I leave behind a lot of empty wine bottles.
You said eat anything in the fridge and I did
right down to the last gherkin.
Unrelated: your... more
...a person is like an ocean, or a country, or a forest...
Years later I think of the poetry of peeing. The rhythm and alliteration of Russian race horse, the quick dicks and fricatives, the two tree tonals, the rhyme of drain the main vein.
I just knew it wasn’t a wolf howling at the moon. I just knew it wasn’t a cow, wasn’t a tree, wasn’t a sunset, wasn’t a child, wasn’t an elder, wasn’t any building I’ve ever built.
Do you remember this one?
After I threw up in the Mexican restaurant’s normal-sized toilet and picked my stepdaughter up from school, I decided to try my migraine cure that always never works again.
Exposing myself to the dumbest ideas and the most hateful weirdos online triggers a chemical reaction that gives me pleasure, or something like it. A hoarder of bad ideas, stacking them all up into wobbly piles that might someday topple and crush me.
But Aaron and I weren’t official. We were fucking almost every night, but we weren’t official. Technically.
The song on repeat, singing to Scout, for some reason stranded, standing on the patio table, dead-center, like a reanimated roast, and my father, drunk and shirtless, passed out in a pile of mulch in the yard.
July yawns. Flashes its grills...
At last our molars burst forth from the gum and we emerged from the rose-colored womb of our first grade classroom.
The 550-page the Internet is for real by poet, activist, educator, and underwear model Chris Campanioni struck me earlier... more
