don’t turn up the sound, wait a minute or two, slow me down; speaking, half-heartedly, from within, daydream wishing you belong to me - come down, mother Mary, i cannot see. i want to thank you, love, but I’m feeling re-buffed, conscious of wrongdoing lickity-split, off the cuff,
hey, nonny, i’m coming for You, you get what you pay for in this primordial stew (one way or the other—leave a leg-acy behind, make it safe for my protégé to lose his mind). Why? Am i dying, a few years at a time? you see the differ-ence, don’t you, before a decade is up? look at what i’ve be-come: take the alcohol, friend, out of my cup—i’ll figure out how to do it high on you and sober piecewise, proving the energy that you’re attracted to
that i, dear heart, would be embarrassed by. i had no shame, when drunk, never did, as far as the eye can see, knowing, deep down, that i’m too good for this shit; i won’t put up with the monkey in the tower—leading people to think that he, like me, is misunderstood. That’s how they raise each other up—the dominoes fall, ousted from her seat, now get rid, please, of the tribunal at my feet.
sweet brown lover rolling their eyes . . . i’m not here to ruin you—but I might eat you up, and then, I ask, where would we be? Curb your appetite, nonny, don’t go looking for me—we come to you, then i make it up to them; reward their bravery, liquid courage, perhaps, but meaning some-thing—at least, that is, to their stalwart mind; once sober
now dung; Accept my satire, Cortez, burn your ships if you must; don’t cross, me darling, or i’ll surely die. i’m a lit-tle different, i think, than the rest of my fellow basement dwellers, living, as we do, on the iceman, pipe dreams, bor-ing playwrights to boot.
You might have meant something to me at one point in my life—but you’re talking to the entire country, now, and, huh, that would be me; i represent the future; i represent modernity: taking a thousand directions and rolling it into a ball, African cornbread, connecting with the backhaul, nonny, nonny, go to your room;
Spend time with me, Alex, but there’s no time to give; i won’t complain, then, if you leave me with the kids; happy househusband, happy home, you want to go the distance, you can go it alone
I’ll be locked up in my wonderful home, thinking of the future and our next event; this is life in heaven—we’ll keep our eyes on it, detailing perfection, His word for mine, but we’re both approaching zero; that’s when this tip goes wayward bound; what am I, if you fire me, a juggler and a clown? don’t leave me to the streets; but, hey, as a swindler, i’ll land on my feet—having made connections, of course, that I can substantiate