Roller Skating Boogie Bone Ballad

Sex with wolves. My ex is from Bruges. I’m a xylophone,
waiting for a dial tone. I break the rules. I date a xenophobe,
messed up on hemoglobin and bowls of Xanax and panic.
We’re both dust creatures seeking symptoms of stimuli,
and a nice lullaby. I’m the fall guy, blue neon, tall guy.

Bringing snow chains to the party, we’re lost in the Mardi Gras
foi gras, grass skirt, fashionable undershirt of a world gone bezerk.
I’m a lasting impression in a glass jar, flamaldehyde heart. Testoserone
dart at the lovely part in your hair, where the blonde and the blonde
and the blonde go blind.

Look inside me but not enough to make you queasy.

Roller skating blues singer without a band.

I’m an emergency lane clogged with Daquiri. Apathy is a hat for me.
I’m a latch key masterpiece with razor sharp faculties. But a little cold
at 35 degrees. I’m a parka in the Keys, more heel than Achilles. Call me silly,
but don’t text me. I’m restless and sexy. Do me a favor and murder
my tendencies, a little bit underneath the sink, please.
I reach my peak and then…

Fountain pen. Mountain men. Counting Yen.
Do me a favor and knock again. I’m a repeating non-pattern,
second ring of Saturn. Holy smokes, you weren’t joking,
that’s some ego you’re toking. Awoken like Tolkien.
I’m a garage door and a lot more. Figurative pie in the sky.
This is the most beautiful place I can think of to die.

Dancing in delirium, dining on venison.

I dedicate this
to the waitress
who brought my drink
and gave a kiss

I’m going to keep loving you
until we both Cinnamon Toast Crunch
Alphabet Poop

Version 2

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Life Raft and the Needle

Go to sleep and dream of origami,
your passport stamped salami.
Come home and brag about Brussels.
Scream at your mom and dad,
‘I’m tired of the American hustle!’

There’s six Canada goose around the pond, honking at the cars.
I’m wandering in bars, looking for a gentle heart that’s fond
of the pedestal I place her on, hope she’ll settle for my mettle,
my stars, and my fawn.

This year I’m not going to count the months.
I’m going to clean out the fridge.
I’m not going to write poems that rhyme.
Nope, not at all; except this time.

I’m a night sailor, blind tailor.
Scooping dirt from the garden
to fill up my coffee pot. Stitching
blankets from Brillo pads.
It gets hot a lot.

Your favorite Loteria card
is El Corazon.
Mine’s El Borracho.
We both have dirty dishwater eyes,
we use to see through lies.
Yo trabajo.

Even if I was a watchmaker
—  I couldn’t make time with you.

You’re like Jesse James
and the painting on the wall…
Was he lost in its charm? was it crooked?
could he see the coward  Robert Ford in the reflection?
did he laugh at his imminent death, if just for a second?

This canyon made of crayon,
painted colorless and dark,
traps me in its meandering palm.
Canyon walls like cannonballs,
shaking the ground, exploding,
falling, disintegrating
all around.

Let’s make a painting
about any damn thing.

The only way out is to take the river.
You’re a life raft and I’m a needle.

groos