Darker Pixels Are
Heavier
Rolling down the window
I read I just want to
relax only it’s
not relax it’s read.
He’s got the bladder of a
catamaran so I should’ve
brought a milk bottle.
Earlier on the impossible
bus the letters are unbearable.
It’s all talk talk
talk, it’s the
age of speaking louder
when spoken to. The
trick is
to interrupt the speaker
before the thought.
Never
be spoken to. So
as. So
this book of letters by
the most underrepresented
fellow in the New York School
just makes me itchy.
Itchy
to catch a ride elsewhere
in this age of unbearable.
Then you called. If
only
to say I love you and let’s
hitch to Vegas—in a cat-
aclysm? Why the
freaky
vibrating 50s brain that
choses sink for beautiful
butterfly stroke.
Over
stroke every time?
Summer in December
isn’t frazzled. It’s
the heaven that Vegas
isn’t. It never
bellows.
It’s cream it rises like
angelfood cake with
wings. Not even
frilly sextatic wings.
