we should have met, smelling like banana peels
browning under hot leather seats, and the gnash of closing windows
on a dry and sore Yonkers six-o'clock.
your fingers skew while you pulled my sticky ribs apart
like bark and twine off the old, swollen trees
lining the crawl and moan to Denver in July.
gray matter clung drying and greasy to the notches in between my palms,
lousy with splinters, buildings grown up
between reeds and the time on your worn watch.
the only things i know how to remember
are grainy,
wrought underneath my fingernails,
slices flatter than your eyes, your bones, your quiet
unassuming teeth.
gnaw rhythmically and
battered until i misunderstand and lurch away,
just smudges in the ditches
somewhere
muted and calamitous
in new york.
Author notes
to paraphrase the illustrious Inspectah Deck, some shit carries like a pick up truck, 'cross the clear blue yonder.
Adding your comment: