Coffee in a French Press

We both sit in the kitchen, you
make coffee in a french press.

How could one not want this
from life. The body remainder

is a sense there of absence. Bright
lights in the presence of evidence.

Why withering wife making
breakfast for the both of us

is a thing made up in the mind. I will
shudder in delight at what's mine.

Golden Penny

I've got this golden penny burnished
sheening and the bubbling up liquid
(who was thin, but now's viscous) that
brought it to fore

And I lift it, and glanced by the ray of
some glare—Whose seen, and whose
skip tripped up and missed us—this
discus of credit

Immorality

This is immorality, is making the tips
of my fingers come off in skinny flakes
from the inside out, where cowardice
domains. Where the fuck's my metal
sheet from Streets and Sanitation? Do
I somehow not pay these taxes
of endurance?