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He ate mozzarella cheese on wafers. In his white pajamas. On a cloud. Was he dead? Yes, he was dead.

my chiropractor is indian
with a formal english vocabulary under a heavy accent
so he can get away with saying these things
“you have such a lovely young body
that i do not imagine at your age you are single very often for very long
so make sure the next man that you see is spiritual”
i do not visit him often
because he does not keep his voice down

“every time you are angry, write a love poem.”
once i honked at a car
who cut off mine & scared me

the man got back into the other lane
rolled down his window, shouted, ‘i’m sorry’

i felt so terrible
most people are basically good
(but it’s such an easy thing to forget
these days)

and he takes me in honesty
(and that is all there is to say on the matter)

The trees bent down so low, he thought they were going to tie his shoes for him. Then he realized they were giving him a present: a robot, made entirely of twigs, with a tiny wooden face and the cutest pair of bark underpants.

remember the nights of poetry
books&books and hours&hours
quoting the good ones to each other, until we degenerated back into just-ourselves
with our-vocabulary,
fuck me like you’re alan watts
(the memory ends –
stoned sneaking out your second-floor window because your mother’s home from her chinese classes at community college, you were a necessary right-of-passage
)
that i should miss
but i don’t

either she fills the silence or i do

sometimes
we are quiet enough that my noise & hers does not intersect
(living in small spaces without headphones)

I was supposed to resemble a goddess.. glistening and glorious with a majesty, grace and beauty no one could deny.. my tresses were curled in a tangle of desire around my dewy golden face. I glided into the room. The party seemed to pause … then I heard my husband’s booming voice “Christ love, you look like an oompa loompa, how much of that fake tan stuff did you use?”

I am listening to the fog in myself.
It sounds like two mice are about.
They have dew in their whiskers
and they are discussing the moss.
One of them holds up a lichen umbrella
and does a funny sad dance.

puts the red lipstick on too heavy, kisses off the excess into her inner wrist

lana del rey on the stereo & a boho beauty in front of me smoking her menthols
cross-legged on the wooden floorboards in the frontroom, no furniture,
she says ‘don’t tell me you love me until after’
sitting flipping half-naked through vintage victorian anatomical art, she says, ‘this will be my next tattoo’
points to a long-stemmed perennial in an old botanists’ catalouge
her jazz musician boyfriend comes in, she laughs, her bracelets chiming, metal-on-metal, pulls him down by the forearm & crawls onto his lap
i don’t love her at all
(nothing left to do but lay down & i do, spine & the floor, missing my own musician like he was dead, daydream he’s playing a gig instead)