Tonic water and tatterdemalion lemon, that shirt
you wanted and so, rudimentary as a spoon, I go
Googling for it, but only after skimming the latest
issue of Harper's, the last sentence of which says
that chimpanzees have a bone in their hearts,
and asking you, who I can't expect will know
why chimpanzees have a bone in their hearts,
why chimpanzees have a bone in their hearts.



Fascist 's just another word for "Is this thing on?"
as if, escaped close to home, I don't fight the whole
way to maintain the same gait to different places,

and what with no wood pallet for this big bad wad
of world; with my skills, my gall, not quite transferring
while I'm faking the grade; with Cinderella here

trippin' balls, I leave all thought to blast the anxious
target that I am, the departure that I was
and have yet to be lately, gone the other way

without a compass, the one I'd bothered to steal
but lost in stasis after calling out the day.
That's it. That's the poem-oem-oem-oem...



I'm repeating what you said you thought would calm me down,
and if I get to thinking I'm alien and not,
then how like everyone I am, somehow both never

and always having known myself as more or less young,
words brought up from in me that then meet themselves in air
so as to haunt me where they already were and are,

covering and conjuring, corroding all I own
and all I don't and even all I'll never have to,
want to, or think to—all of liberty and the law—

their network and my net worth set and set up in some
stone or some imaginary stone or stone of stones,
a nervousness wild and yet rigid in its crisis,

as odd and as impossible as glitter in blood,
as sudden and as sad as half a key in its lock,
the whole trail of this a swarm, the whole swarm of it stuck,

until I'm pulled down out of a phrase that makes me back
believably right side up and out of tune with not
so much as favorite songs or the fact that all my plans

can eventually be smashed by chains of causation,
but if you're tired or hungry and it's not a good time
to talk then we can just come back to this later once

the rain cleans the road and takes its leave and all its clouds
not back, not really, but to somewhere where the loud dark
reels of weather's progress might be thought of as favors,

and if Was geschieht ist Abschied shorty it's more like
phi-LOL-ogy amirite that it sleeps to reason there's
a bottom but it moves and ain't some petal-strewn slab

that by the sell-by by the seashore says she loves me
not my GameStop stonks or my taste in knockoff gas masks
k thx orange you glad I didn't say Felicia?