free-born and free-falling (in a way that only the white man can) as I eradicate every last modicum of hate, that, somehow, got passed down. you live on your own—trying to make ends meet; my vices cost money; my health insurance would compete - if i could help it; need to restart, return to my home, marry His mother, never to roam
my paintings, dear heart, speak for themselves—i can see part of it, knowing, as i do, all about myself—my desires and the life that takes a simple man and makes him complicated as hell;
looking forward, however, to a characteristic hug will you press your breasts against my body? Or embrace my collar bones instead? my art evolves, goes and takes shape, expressing the experience of an internal state asking for money—i know you don’t have it, and neither do i, that keeps us apart—but I see the gleam in your eye
what can i say? love me you must; don’t i think of more than myself? merging voices - don’t think, anymore, that it will turn to mud. We respect our differences, and, eventually, nature will catch up
I can’t date AOC is it the end of the world? Never liked to date—can’t afford it, either. Mainly thinking, then, of sober stimulation; so, for now, I’ll scalp a head of lettuce, and while I’m at it, I’ll put it, jackhammer, where the sun don’t shine—thinking, then, that she’ll “date” me when?
Nonny be my nickname on the other side
of the sun; a place, I contend, that nobody
can see—not, that is, when they abide
in this life, sharing all of it with me
AI won’t translate my affection—thinking
necessarily, of his connection to
the strong arm of the law—a man, a king
the end of democracy, the end of you
and me; can’t afford, can I, to love someone?
gas prices—you widget; they make us fight
over the little things that keep us undone,
signs of darkness competing with the light
We’re more alike, dear heart, than you might
think—pounding Dr. Pepper, my drug of
choice. I speak the language that I cite
waves that double up: exposing their love
their existence, that is, when push comes
to shove, and the world is set afire.
Now take all the money that he sums
make him the object of his own desire
if there is a hell, what, then, is it like?
alien life, here, they choose, now, to die
kissing until their hormones would spike
that’s what lived, back then, in my mind’s eye