“and where’s the melody
to remedy the melody, the remedy to remedy the remedy”
-Diane Seuss
Last ever moments of falling
asleep with you, last
ballooning mood & heartbeat
so I
You find yourself crying on the phone to your manager, telling them you don’t know if you’re in an emotionally abusive relationship or not. That probably deserves certainty.
When she died, she just wasn’t there. I had to ask about her. She wasn’t in the usual place.
I think they mean they just don't like a woman going around going "cunt cunt cunt."
Across the vacant middle seat an old man is sleeping through all of this, chin to collarbone, neck bent at a right angle.
Macy’s Closeout Sale
I am curious what newcomers think of my city,
but it is not really
And any of the people that had been counted correctly, including me, could move or die, making the incorrect count accurate once again, if only for a moment.
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 thru the air and try to touch
myself the way you touched me
too bad we met/never met
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.
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 turtle is dead.
You failed to mention it and I failed
to
...a person is like an ocean, or a country, or a forest...
Do you remember this one?
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.
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.
