My love has jets for thighs. She slams into France, movie style, so-so European. My ears cut off.

My love is the tiniest pillow between my head and the air compressor. Wind worms underneath us. Wind is the real opposite of darkness.

My love covers the long range crisis. Celebrates birthdays, Christmas. Normal things slide from her fingers like rings.

New York blacked out and how did she crouch beside the candles?

My lovely-other-than hunkering, she was upside-down flowers with lights inside.

Heard that New York blacked out like a schizophrenic coma: Send a candle if I could: send you pop-n-smack lips: blowing movie style across the ocean wasn’t my idea: blame Becky and you better call: call me long and soon


August 20

Enclosed: see my high-speed all-American shimmy: we be-bopped and bunny hopped through photogenic ballrooms: Paris couldn’t wear us, but the liquor here flickers: that’s Becky’s hand on my thigh don’t worry.


August 26


Rollin’ in the cobblestone: plain rain: lost the time a few towers ago: gotcha this magnet at Ye Olde Gift Shoppe: Two lumps at a tea party we threw in lieu of you: oh! and Becky sexed a Transylvanian:  but you didn’t hear it here.



World News: Skyscrapers and moon craters blah blah blahblah: tomorrow’s going tone deaf so we gotta hit the trains: my ticket’s blown to smithereens and away we fucking go.


Becky doesn’t know shit: I said no way and she was like come on so I was like in the middle and I really really tried: kiss the cats while I wipe my face: there and there and there.


Seventeen beds per room: can’t get the candy out of my hair: everyone walked on raw meat last night: don’t know why my cheeks have tattoos but Becky says I look good.




No: I’m not having too much fun—have you ever heard that song: if you loved me I’d be a bird right now.

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