Tell Me A Story

beginning here is a promise to breathe underwater where laughs emit bubbles break the surface; when you clasp hands and touch tongues play repeat after me while doing butt bumpers and come up choking on the funny. I’m thinking Jill and what’s his face and you remember what the rest of the poem said because of everything and nothing in particular but old fashion plates help me offer my version of the end of it. I write letters addressed to various you’s please don’t break this

impermanence all around you say like you’ve bought a round of drinks for friends at a party in your honor. Connect the new faces at dinner with insecurity and unrehearsed prayers, chanted quietly in mixed verse. Thirty six is the number of years you’ve traversed roads that ultimately end in a series of sloppy victories headed towards the drain of success and nerdy black eyeglasses that keep you there amongst the bottom-dwellers. I damage the image belle of the isle now flitti

1. she was always caught in the shutterbug’s spherical aberration. She emerged from its clutches a flawed subject. Blood pulsing through her veins distracted you from the reality of her pale skin tone, her fading smile. Over-exposure never helps one to conquer the hard edges. She’s blurry and fragile without the liquid serum that exists only in your hidden crevices. 2. She salvages domestic energy. It allows for lingerie to leap onto the floor with strangers. Lying in old she

i hear clanging in my ear failing ding me, claim me it’s seize the space I’m in I say hide with crickets in thickets I say zest your fancy dishes with all things orange and the rubbery lovechild produced as a result of the kerfuffle with steel and dairy products you listen to thunderous clouds if I am sitting Shiva if you are salty tears drown out the droning of the deep resounding emptiness a half-hearted heart cured if alcohol yelled quietly amongst its peers if gifts and n