with a current of jazz and a note full of chai. I’m
crystal distress again, aware I made a poem until
last night. like wire and something novel. what
shall I call it? disregard shall I call it myself.
this is what is outside with the cats’ poems. back
to being frequent, the cat under the bed trick,
a little S.O.S. in my diary which works better
when the tea’s good. I can call it whoever
shows up to do some laundry with the kid brother.
a silent talk that bonds with the scaredest cat.
the smokers’ eadrums are the sexiest. this
I register with the kind of attitude that makes
turkey go faster. I guess it’s okay to gossip when
deep onions are pushed onto one another. I guess
that’s okay down in the silence that stops him
at airports while he is maybe writing. it’s all okay.
