wake up, rod

Horse, Horse, Packhorse On the yogurt farm we used my car’s roof as an ashtray and threw protein cubes at the sows. Vanilla. Horse, Horse, Packhorse. A connect-the-map-dots game with the letter S inscribes a pentagram on the world. The horses of privilege running Horse, Horse, Packhorse on every hill as far as I could see. Nostalgia is more than I can bear, each fucking second a x-shaped trail of scorched butterscotch slapped Horse, Horse, Packhorse on my heart, my actual heart, the muscle sizzling and putrefying in the sweetness. I want to stab a hole in the gas tank engine and play Horse, Horse, Packhorse, drive the car a mile away, let you drop the bic back at that random farm, slam on the accelerator until the flames catch up inside me, cooking Horse, Horse, Packhorse, thunder-clapping against the side of my face like fireworks. But I don’t, and this nostalgia eats everything. This resentment. Build it all up like a cairn of ci...

Our yard lays long as a dog run. Hearing thunder, we drag kitchen chairs close to the porch edge and work up a weed cloud to wait inside. The leaves cover wilting grass with crisps of color. A hook breaks on the radio like resurrection and we croon close, scaring off the Sunday swelling up around our city. Tuesday. You slunk in around 3, drunk, fumbling, city smelling up your wool. 10:28am and we were watching the North Tower close in on itself. On break from The Big Green, not yet working at Goldman. Before the Wall Street Bull broke you, we sat hand-in-hand, undercover, loving each other. The covers were weighty as steel. Too soon you were back in the city courting thin women who hung on you like tinsel, breaking bathroom doors with the butt of your hand. We phoned: Didn't you know...? And I didn't. Always the work, the show-time face. Never near enough to be close, Dave. Once Day Day doing The Loco-Motion, all closed fists and flung limbs to Grand Funk...

Hyperpop.2 by BenB * Hyperpop.2 Hellacious sweetmeat, son of a sinner, eye of some ungracious storm. Be my unilateral decision, my deciding electorate vote. Spindle sperm and faith, treble and arterial spray. Bless my wounds in nightshade neon, vending machine supplicant. I need this nearness, this all is intractable evidence ━ these sloppy sounds of sick on sick, wet sick, warbled over ice like disco butter ━ of Geppeto’s cunning strings. But I digress, pressed as I am against this filthy wall covered with pen marks, pleasure votive, the diacritical philosophies of a horny, hapless cellist. Cellophane pressed against my mouth, counting the molecules in the moisture. My lover means to kill me. My lover hasn’t succeeded yet, but love means letting him try. God is not good, god is good at. The distinction is my chapped knees, and grotesque hairdo, huffing bathroom paint and the plastic peony fresh of toilet bowl cleanser cakes. I know, I know, this part is where I am penet...

When we rise to say goodbye, he and I cleave drowsy, fall past one another. The rain pangs ruddy leaves. Uneasy fall. We were splayed, overlaid hot, in the Foothills when we fell asleep sloped. We woke at noon. I kissed him crazy, felt the fall. My fish sloshed reckless in her bowl. "Hold on tight!" Our Utah: The Rockies flexing their knuckles over a gold-queasy fall. Shoulders broad as doorframes and I am just passing through. I warned him I've had many loves; did he worry over the fall? We can't be alone in each other's open interval. Wreck morning on his chest. Lolling on breaths, it's easy to fall. My other has given me simplicity, the hush of home at dawn. I'll miss him when the winds bring the next balmy fall. You have consumed much joy in few years, wanting Katherine. Now learn about you and love: You fall in. That's the only fall.