We are toward somewhere in the first sentence. There is June & us or us or June because that’s what’s left of it. I walk like a walk with a walk on the table. The walk is finding thirty dollars on the floor & taking it. The table is stopping your heart if you love someone right now. The rest takes your life again.
I want to kiss no one I’ve ever wanted to kiss. The second sentence is the suitcases on every floor of my heart are packed. We never talk about swimming pools living up to water. We talk about how water can’t breathe & how water is most of the prison inside an animal & how water gives a fuck about what you or I do. I know, I know, I know, I know, I know—I still believe in water.
Two Nights After The Fourth Of July
I am an air conditioner with two sweating cans, legs crossed, Mad Men paused, texting, saying something I do not wish to say, in the solitude I need—that needs me—so I can think & feel & say everything I have to think & feel & say to no one unless I choose to. I am an air conditioner before countries. I am an air conditioner before centuries. I am an air conditioner from right to left. I am an air conditioner from north to south, from east to west. I am an air conditioner with the hope of always being an air conditioner because, goddamn: don’t you always want to do what you do best?