On staying in.

the quart of milk leaks water into the bedspread,
water where the wax sputtered out last night,
i’m hanging my aching ankles off the side, whispering ‘don’t come around, don’t come around’
in my head as the wind blows.
congratulations, jerk, it lurches in my head
hot yoga and a trip on the treadmill and a longing look in the pastry section of bourgeoisie can’t fix a damned thing.
the cat’s so calm she doesn’t even prick her ears when a dog barks outside, he’s forlorn as i, he doesn’t have the milk or the coffee or the means to get up and stretch.
they took my legs today and i found that there was no way to grip my own body amid the sweat.
they turned the heat up and i scrambled to sip sweaty water from my hands but ended up waterboarding myself in exuberance
turned over onto the towel, jubilant, pissed
covered in mucus.
filthy boxers.
israel won’t stop emailing me to see the country, take up arms.
a woman from my past is curt,
don’t come around, don’t come around.
when i pick up the phone, i can see the strains in their voices, and,
i could easily go out for a cup of tea but
it would
be easier to stay than come around.

-C.

On where the hell did I hear that song?

morning: time unknown. through desert mirages of smoke on the water, dried beds in tennessee blown into my face and out the window dancing on wine glasses
me and julio down by the schoolyard on a gibson missing an e-string twanging frantically trapped
no amplifier or cords, unplugged fettered languid cat blinks
arching like how she does when she wants to leave the house
the only good proclaimers song, too, sounded familiar in my brain- ‘i met you’
did i hear it walking across north lexington in the slosh of the rain from an anonymous bar that i didn’t pick that didn’t swerve me or was it wafting from some lazy cafe in the 4th on a bright, cold january morning?
manhattan at dawn, a baker’s lament?
a backyard in ohio?
it was in my house, regardless, it had tailed me somewhere through tailpipes and nights in strange beds and tables smeared with coffee grounds it had followed me up the stairs of my abode to emanate from a guitar with barely any sound,
where did i hear it?
where did it go? well, that was dangerous, quite the decant into unknown depths of the soul, singing sermons for the drunk and stoned at noon, prayers for an unmade bed, lyrics sung by boys who walk on hills and watch bikes and pay bills and glow with the dust of a freshly scrubbed face and the haunt of waiting.

-C.