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morning song
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Bad poetry my skin stands up in small dots
maybe brain does also
my soul is the heaviest part to lift from the bed
I might fall yet. This nonsense
persists until the shower
still lingers yet on the slick pantina of the mirror
I look as fuzzy as I feel
which is not sober
yet. I dream of space every night
some parts of me are still pouring in slowly from the atmosphere
penis
heart in the physical sense
heart in the romantic sense
the heart I had in 1999
what I have now
still not enough blood to get the point across
hollering in a doorway. I stay until I don’t enjoy the bathroom
anymore. Out into the bedroom the
kitchen and the car
everyone has been waiting for me
look, all the lights are still on.
