Forgive my tongue. Slack as eel,
spilling vowels like stray specks
of sea—slimy and unintelligible.
Mass of gray. Overhead, gulls
The pawn shop opens, and we stumble
across a séance of marbles, drawn close,
wistful and unflagging. They arrange like
seared eggs—beneath the fired yolk
of a veined sun—each, bulging beneath
siblings in a mahogany sky, impending
release. It’s a dark room, and we’re
torching our hands. We’re the shoplifters—
without penalty, looking for real estate.
Mortgage rates low. APR so zero, except
for our grandchildren and the dwindling
panda bears, last century. We ask the
proper questions: where are the pipes?
Do they leak gaseous fumes? Are we
too close to the Interstate—the whipped
littered belts lashed with spaceship
organs and wrappers, remnants
of a flag stamped into the eye? We begin
to imagine ourselves, there. According
to HGTV, the sign of comfort. Dotted line.
Wouldn’t the boats match the vessels
so well? Wouldn’t the telescope fit great
in that corner? Maybe we’ll bring letters,
write our neighbors. Keep our eyes open.
Starter home, after all.
Lights up. Two men walk into a bar,
and the first says, serve me. And the second
refuses, slices juices from his hand. They
dissolve into saliva, fumes, the morning breath
of a brandished cock. The air stings with
glittering teeth, maelstrom of vicious skirts.
Look at my skin. Infringe me not.