11 January 2014

the (sub) tropic of (pre) cancer

woke up in the kitchen  saying how the helld this shit happen oh baby
to practice
the why?

remember the garbage destroyers, the ones
who takes the reproductions you do
of you,  the waste you
think you made enough of


from the black notebook on the table, an open letter:
I am sorry I doomed it on the drive, in the dream, from my body a day after
those little caresses on the 
hairs of (my?) a heart
coming true
giving me yours, make it
I'm glad a glad a

it started pouring down tropical rain 
and I went out into it
and Chad came out, flipping off his slips
and soaked himself in January

January in the Tropics

you deserve your name
invisible limbs
a cloud of verse
make me
full
  funnel
you
make me forget
that I'm my month
 and I'm hunting for my
full
  wolf