I read a chapbook of a
woman; now sheets
and legs are wet; that
book didn’t teach me
how to clean it up; I
threw a carafe of my piss
over the roof; I never
called ‘Heyo’; I can
hear everyone below
in the library; they are
guarding my sounds and
keep checking I don’t
sunburn my tits anymore.
No they aren’t but I’m
taking care and doing it
myself; I could wash
the sheets before dinner
and after go outside.


Dinner was on the porch;
it was oiled Mexican
dinner you worry about
the fats and meats and
can’t taste it anymore;
the porch is lower than
all the flower pots and
a round statue of a sitting
man in ecstasy he made;
small walls push up
around and keep the dirt
like walls; porches don’t
need blue ceilings here;
they can crash in on
their own blueprint and
make it out ok; It’s all a
mess I think; two men
both fucked architects
and only one ended
up dead; heart attack;
gets herself up and
walks to a bench. its
three steps down to
the porch from the
flower pots and round
statue of a sitting man;
I am watching my weight
while she picks a banjo
and grinds air around her
with her hair tucked
behind each ear; her foot
supine on my plate.