Sometime Before Lunch

Waiting on the oncoming rain.
Sure, it will pour down a soothing
melody on the Saturns. But there’s
so much. So much to care about
lounging in bed with Frank O’Hara.

There’s a Tree of Life hiding the octopus:
brain’s deflating, eyes blood shot red.
Kahlua lingers in the milk radiating
a smell that would stick to fingers.

Hair twirled in knots, there’s not an ounce
of dread pressed on the chest.
Two days ago, a warning from the
blood in the moon: The World’s energy
is all bad today.

II.

fell out of bed last night. i have no idea who is slamming the car door
in front of my window. city lights, the story, and its writer. the Green
Devil is chased by the cocktail waitress. the clown seems amused by
her milky white thighs. she loves things that can hang on walls, provide
Her with the validation she deserves. cars natural as waves passing by.
how many more years until they end up in a biology textbook? a long
damn time if these sirens keep going off. imagine the benefit from an extended release. will there ever be anybody other than the skeletons?
Of Course! one wears a crown of roses and the other smokes a hand
rolled cigarette. which one do I like best?

III.

address the morning with a
double cheeseburger, with pickles,
with onions, with mayonnaise, with
french fries, with pepperoni pizza, with
buttered noodles, with two chocolate chip cookies,
with a glass of milk, with ginger ale.

IV.

think there’s a sound of nothing.
something that lightly brushes your
skin. for a brief moment, i almost
see it manifest. and that’s the beauty.
focus allows it to vanish, hide
behind the undeserving observation
of the inner self.

that might not mean a goddamn
thing but the fire alarm has gone off
three times and the sprinklers haven’t
engaged once. i’m convinced of
aesthetic deception. functionality is
useless.

i’ve been told many times of the Water —
black and stagnant. they say it ruins
everything. so why put the fire out? my
glasses are fake and i appreciate them
more every day.