Solitary Holiday

I.

Touching is
and awful thing
and like a screen
tries to obstain.

A shiver holds
between the folds,
the manic
caustic center.

An epic tale
that you've allowed,
with tendered waists
and venting sounds

is all that strength
can still maintain.


II.

I see now, that you
were an FAS baby
--your face is awfully long

Your hair,
your slutty dress
has not effect on me.
--I'm gay.

Your like an
invisible mistake
snake.

With nowhere to go
but around.

Your guitar
your leather loafers

your mother of pearl
and rhinestone
toe buckle?


III.

When I come home
upon a wave

my visage
pallidly malaised,

your consensus
like a front,

I am so creativley
dazed.

An arabesque:
the future laid

or else
my squalor.

Us, Outside. A bryn

I know,
when you stole my car
and drove away.
when you stayed.

That when your voice
hits a three note chord
and echoes.

There is so much
hair in my face
so much nightly disgrace.

But I know.

I know that when I
can be still and quiet
like a Zelda in the woods,

the mottled sun
will shine green
on both of us.

And through the trees
he vaguely sees
a child running away,
like a chased thing.

You're Superchunk!

You're Superchunk!
I know your name

I sat next to you
on a plane.

You've stringy hair
the way you wear
your silly hippy mane
is fair.

Your gait has an
incautious ease,
an accidental swagger,
please.

You're going to live
in the mountains now
in some western state
and how.

You'll camp, and
eat bugs and dirt.

Meth

Bubble frump,
little hump.

your stupid junk is bared.

For the sweet sake of
Transparency;
reflexively
it stared.

Your grenadine and silkscreens all
a replicated funk.
A little drunk.

A cautionary tale.
A lump.

Last night you said
some awful things,
and I was not prepared

painted on your skin
a sin
your customary outerwear.