---For Bryan Coffelt
Where were your hands in 1993. Did the forest have groceries in it. Our dog tried to rope the finest harbor becoming smaller as the moon fingered in circles. Paper moon factories and bangles made of ore. These friends decide how to wear hoodies in a disco, beer in the key of flour and snow. Yet mandrakes rarely grow in San Paolo. Like we were frisbees caught in the yacht club.
Would paintball be a sweet-ass mating ground. Now we have strands of light around us. Dancing in your tightrope clothes a mystic panda, a more flaccid substitute yamika. That was the summer the yearbook turned purple. The Stooges blew lightbulbs out of our trash. Bugs made smaller through division. I could be telling a morbid biography.
I was drunk and crossing the river.
It made me wander in cyberspace and creamspace and desertspace. No more living of the dream. Also the awful pillowed in around our coffin. My father, the one with the ugly jaw, cope motion. Set up on three separate legs like glass only more clouds. Someone in the south flips off a cliff. The blizzard does not have a proper traveling case.
My cat does it for the free haircuts not the sadness of a lesbian chat room filled with matchbooks. She was yummy once.
Makes no sound.
Also giraffes kiss like assholes.
Now the bears have no name.
A bunch of assholes scared of glass.