I dress out of season
for these trees. The coolest wedge
of an april moon
drowns my tongue in a fury
of budding. Such solemnity
she limns through what she wants
to believe: as if there were
nothing between her but
the sky and the poem, staggering
--/"Young, dumb, and full of cum"/
A man spoke to them from
lying on bascule bridge, asked
"You okay?"
Yeah, I guess. The end of her
umbrella smells
of burni ng hair along
the guts of clifton ave crunk
mother loose, knows
karate
--There's Sirens Back There-
"You got some nice things,
mr or mrs America; I like
throwing them at you"
You don't know what
a badass motherfucker
I am. I gargle sliced moonlight
sets little fires licking
the hair she so
ardently believed in.
It's true she'd heard those
birds before:
/"--fucking the shit out of
you mom
ffucking, fucking it
fucking the shit the shit
the shit out of your mom/
--
Lewis LaCook
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