Green green green


ish, like hat on a stick in the haze of tan stucco walls on a beach day.

Kiss me a fool

Pledge me a lie

Grafitti ghosts of past lovers like my fingertips bloody. Misspelled. Difficult, eh?


Pouchy pooch pout orange lemons

Stripe me blue backed bugs

And eat.

Some more


Purple tag too much in the wind

He didn’t show up. Again for the first time. But in my dreams his brother Chinese fingertrap or Japanese asian something with long frizzy ginger hair now prepped out for the office of yogic devotion altar sacrifice breakfast drinks.

Sitting on our asses on telephones for unemployment.


I wear hats all day long and throw them off in dust.


My butt is sweaty and you can feel it for a quarter Gatorade photoshop. Wait until tomorrow. Meeting late. Late late very late BMWs hit me constantly and swerve and speed and bad luck on the freeway blackjack.


Dead. So I turned around to get to Vernon by Sunset.


Bought tickets halfway. In a box with no clothes of his or hers or his books just hers. Never his. Only hers. White not his. Nor hers. The other his.

The wrong hand was exposed. The fingerless one with no ring—or with the ring. Just show it. Show it to them as they hug and ignore.

Baby books and old albums of Mozart collection buried useless boots to give away tomorrow so soon but next year the pearl snaps are gone and no one cries but the clams that don’t exist.

Come back. He is right there in silence. See the gray. The initial name.


Not hers.

Why so angry?


Not her fault. Not his nature.


I want collarbones like his in a necktie noose of flabby skin tanned leatherbound bookless wordless not form poetry. Split in two by my fingers at age 8 or 6 maybe or not. Dichotomies of uselessness and irrelevancy are my motherland.

On the plane bags drown me.

All I want is the money. Really? You? C’mon…

No really…his all of his. Share it with yoga mats outside of my new adventurous enterprise we share. Sort of. Together with no work. Combine the two for an expressionless algorithm left floating in chaos vacuum. Blackness so bright is bolted the door with the hostages of curly hair waves to remember him not turn their backs from his closed face as he stared through eyelids at family in miniskirts and drunken cowboy boots and “yes ma’ams” and “yes sirs” and “thank you for coming” and fake hugs that taste like mildew grease he likes so well like a sow’s belly. He can smell it. Fortitude and grace and glory and remorse and disappointment-ish in her.

He never saw her.

She saw his face at last. And saw nothing coming back through the ether winds not blowing shadows or energy just sucked from him.

She didn’t show him anything of nature’s value to her or him or shared business. Lazy ass-fuck cousin twin sister lover.

Had a baby. He didn’t see that either. The blue one with no hair big head big eyes dark and closed again with not words. Mute. Can’t speak. OR hear. Deaf. Not blind. Can see it all and all the way back but not forwards. A piteous psychic. Psychic of past reborn. Reincarnated in my brother’s womb. Aborted by me.  Saved at last by a knife in Christ’s hand at the funeral we all killed each other.



About heathencomehome

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