Two phone calls come
I miss or I skip them
It’s not as if
the satellites really need me
It’s not as if the rooster
is anybody home Loneliness
and reasons I am full of
stomach bugs Later
the defender, and the tulips
still sleeping We’re springing
forward, the grass is grown
Can you believe how
impossibly this is living
and you’re a ghost,
or only closest to me,
reading something juicy,
something with its mouth
hanging open
in the doorway, saying
what ails me is what ales me
I have fallen down the stairs now
some number of times,
but nothing’s so surprising
as the spot beyond the lantern,
the place where the wigwam
waits to be history
It is mostly out of the picture
Or another day for me
to make a pitch in pitch darkness,
the night-light on strike,
saying, fuck it, go home
I want to be blown
all out of proportion,
every mythical monster
and a case of Hop Bomber
It’s the final dress rehearsal
and no one’s being serious
This used to make me nervous,
but now it makes me normal