Fat ugly pigeons near the West 4th St movie theater love extending their whole heads. They latch onto crust with their beaks and flail it about whirling a full 360 in their faggotry.
I watch and I miss you, inhaling the pizza of others.
Similarly migratory, the ice cream trucks
of Bushwick play their song nonstop
for at least three months in heat. The
only way out of it is through. Mr. Softee
fated to his inceldom, is damned and unkissed.
Your fan is pulling bad spirits into your room, convincing you to delete and remake.
Which you start to, but I took you on, stoned, pointing up at the ceiling, telling the boys that the chandelier is so clear a girl,
sad, with her hair hanging down limp.
You play the summer like truth or dare.
I ask, “Are you crying because it’s a dead dog
in the street or your dead dog in the street?” Your dog. I slap you across the face. I get better each time.
I forgot to flip the calendar. June hung
for all of July. Then, when a mousedoor appears, at the foot of a brick wall, unwilled? Love.
It has a physics learned only after it unfurls.
The heirloom tomato I handed you at peak
was my heart, Yours now on the bus home,
its red against city blues and cautionary yellows.
I am ingesting the rainbow, downing Lucky Charms on a night astrologically best for manifesting, hoping for compounding eect.
The dryer sheet box copy demands, “Surround yourself with softness!” But remember the desert? Remember Top of The World? Now I can’t
look at the cacti.
So I run in a human washing machine to techno in Mexico City in lieu of a classic rock boyhood, for all I say I want an armchair, a fireplace,
a big mug. My footing was fucked. Someone had to teach me the twostep.
I am riding in a van called Tus Sueños. Your dreams. Dreams you say you are having in snowpiles and
with all your bones gone. Air conditioning runs
at constant during the city heatwave. Idiot! All chill is false.