Instead of lucidity, I want sleep.
Impulse with precision, flying is always the option
filling you with starch and water so that you jiggle
instead of cry-

those girls in your humid less valley?

Crisp Clear Curt

I’m curt, short too and livid
like mad mami, over the man
and carrots and wallpaper
and the spill from my room,
clutters the hallways
onto your barren gallery of glass
and onto those guys who whistle

like a choo-choo

their winks are blinding
I don’t want to sway any more

Its been swampy here, toxic with summer
beating with warm brown skin, that might cool
once I learn to prune in water

mostly I’d like to press my lips to your forearm
before we lock elbows outside the planet,
so that I know your stench is as lost as mine-