I'M A SLEEPWALKING CHEETAH WITH A HEART FULL OF LIP BALM
We were ultra purple and also so for real.
In the binge harvest, we got it straight
from the source. We made things meaningless
so meaning then could come. Watch us whittle
ugly urges. Watch us tabulate the inky costs.
Good lord, I think you could have waited
at least until we hit the next text stop.
We look up at the new reflective roadsign
typeface: All the World’s a Forgotten Boy.
We tune in to the weather band and listen
to a poem of pure joy written by police.
BIG MONEY FOR BROKEN GOLD
You find out what kind
of neighborhood you’ve got
by how the others jump
when you pass them
on the sidewalks.
In ours, they’re almost all
resigned to being
overtaken by surprise.
If you want to know their secrets,
hang out behind the hotel
where the employees
all sneak smokes.
When next we see those idle dads
shredding by sunset at the trashed
skatepark, let’s make a pact
to never jump again.
Her ring was diagnosed
nine karats British dull,
and I thought right, the rationing.
Your grandmother’s story is
never not achingly everything.