wake up, rod

Moonlighting as a Skyscraper: $10/hr Let’s start with the last: blow back breeze, sway in the bitch wind, squeeze my girders you rotten tangerine. Let’s drape ourselves like Hitchcock stars over the parapet, radio rod, ledge, rooftop-park-bench, cry tears into each other’s mouths, pre-grease our hands. Let’s emote like Antonioni: below me only ground, surrounding me only sky. Let’s start with me screaming, that last guttural accident clanking out my mouth as the asphalt sucks me down, your mouth mouthing prayers like pennies at my face. Or let’s get rid of you, I've already replaced you with a mustache and a squeegee waxing my 51 st advancement. Let’s decorate me with tower-cranes like yellow birds, any yellow birds, doesn't matter, but mustard yellow fuckers for sure swinging like beanie flyers in the breeze, get me all fancy for my little perching man. Let’s imagine you for a change, but you never look up, never stop to pat the limestone like an acceptable child. So let’s im...

I was going for a little departure from my usual. Not sure, but it mostly feels unwieldy. Let's talk about your face as a lamp I've lost the bulb to. Let's talk about dirt, or stacks of magazines or any number of small dominoes we deliberately set up, the tumble comes much later, of course, & it's never something we count down, it's more a rock paper scissor moment. Suddenly I'm holding your hand Suddenly I'm holding the toilet. I once escaped to the basement for hours trying to find an album to prove you my childhood. You asked where I'd been & I said "sweeping." These are incidents to etch into skin: your hand, still, unmemorizable.

You don’t use words like that. Imprimis, bring it in this, within this slit. Ditch it. Pitch it. Immix with it. This iridic ink is incivism, indign. Sing it. Itch.